















LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 


Chap.TEZ3Copyright No. 

ShelUBA^ 3 1ST 

£^gl- 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 







OVER THE HILLS 



OVER THE HILLS 


'BY 


MARY FINDLATER 



NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
1897 





Copyright, 1897 
by 

Dodd, Mead & Company 


BURR PRINTING HOUSE, NEW YORK. 


OYER THE HILLS 


CHAPTER I 

The firm of Jerningham, Yan der Hulst & Gunn 
was the only house of any importance in Ubster : 
Mr. Jerningham was the only rich man in the 
town, his wife the only lady who ‘ kept her car- 
riage,’ but his niece was, even in Ubster, only 
one of many spinsters. When Miss Jane Anne 
Jerningham, therefore, married Campbell of Glarn 
there was matter for a nine days’ wonder. In a 
country town the size of Ubster, the marriage of a 
plain woman who had passed her first youth was 
(I speak of the early fifties) little short of miracu- 
lous. 

Nobody could tell how she had met him or 
where, and her relations declared that they had 
known nothing about it beforehand. To say that 
they had noticed nothing would perhaps have been 
nearer the truth, for Jane Anne’s affairs had never 
provoked much interest at any time, she being 


2 


OVEE THE HILLS 


4 hidden from the strife of tongues ’ by the best of 
all coverings, her own insignificance. She had 
lived in her uncle’s house ever since she was a 
child, and it was only the association, the aroma 
of his great wealth that her name carried with it, 
which distinguished her in any way. It seemed 
to the younger people of her acquaintance subver- 
sive to the established order of things that Jane 
Anne should marry : there was no knowing what 
might happen after that ! Miss Jerningham her- 
self was as much surprised as any one. For the 
first time in her life she had a sensation of solemn 
self-importance when she communicated the news 
to her aunt. 

4 Nonsense, Jane Anne ! Impossible,’ was the 
lady’s first exclamation, followed by 4 Campbell ! 
that fat man with the cough that we met at Aunt 
Sophie’s ! And where ’s Glarn ? ’ 

4 It is a remote place, I believe,’ said Jane Anne, 
4 and he tells me that he has very little money. ’ 

4 1 should think so,’ said Mrs. Jerningham. 
4 He is a minister or something, isn’t he ? ’ she 
added. 

4 Not exactly,’ said her niece, confused a little 
at being expected to define Mr. Campbell’s posi- 
tion. 4 He owns Glarn, aunt, but he’s the min- 
ister too.’ 

4 Why is he so poor, then ? Between them both 
he ought to have something,’ said Mrs. Jerning- 


OYER THE HILLS 


3 


ham, whose only point of acuteness was finan- 
cial. 

4 It is a very small property, and a very small 
living, I believe, ’ faltered her niece. 4 Aunt 
Sophie tells me he only gets eighty pounds a year, 
and that the church is no bigger than this 
room.’ 

4 Big enough if that ’s all he gets for preaching 
in it ! Oh, by -the- bye, he was an admirer of 
Aunt Sophie’s once, I remember. She refused 
him.’ Jane Anne winced a little. 4 Go and tell 
your uncle— I ’ll have nothing to do with it,’ said 
Mrs. Jerningham. 4 He’s in the library now — 
you ’d better get it over. ’ 

Jane Anne thought the same. She did not wait 
till her courage was lowered by thinking over it, 
but turned away, and went slowly down the great 
shallow staircase into the hall. 

The house, viewed from the outside, was an un- 
pretentious old mansion, standing close to the har- 
bour, with a row of flat windows along the front, 
and a wide flight of stone steps leading up to the 
door, from a paved square that opened off the 
quay. It had been built a century before by the 
senior Van der Hulst, a Dutchman, and indoors 
the rooms were large, furnished with a solid lux- 
ury that showed the timber trade of those days to 
have been prosperous. The library windows 
looked out upon the harbour, and above the green 


4 


OVEE THE HILLS 


blinds that screened the lower panes a tangle of 
masts and spars rose against the sky. 

As Jane Anne paused for a moment on the 
threshold before she went into the room, her hand 
went up to her heart with a gesture suggestive of 
sickening fright. To tell her aunt had been com- 
paratively an easy matter ; to tell her uncle was 
another thing altogether. 

Mr. Jerningham was napping in his easy-chair, 
and did not at first hear her come i*n. The light 
fell full upon his portly figure slackened with 
sleep. A dark man, with a full-lipped face, and 
small thick hands. Eumours said that his mother 
had been of foreign extraction ; and when, as in 
the present instance, he wore a white waistcoat, 
the report struck one as being correct. Strangers 
who had not been much brought in contact with 
him, and had noticed only the genial easy maimer 
of the man, would have been surprised to learn 
that he was an object of fear to any one. ... So 
genial — had brought up his niece from the time 
she was a child — his great wealth of course made 
him respected — but to be afraid of him ! 

Yet Jane Anne stood for two minutes looking 
at her uncle in silence, before she ventured on the 
timid little cough that roused him from his nap. 

4 Uncle,’ she said, 4 are you awake ? ’ Jerning- 
ham started, rubbed his hand over his face, crossed 
one leg over the other and yawned. 4 Well, what 


OYER THE HILLS 


5 


cl’ ye want ? ’ he asked, the question engulfed in 
another yawn. Then noticing her flustered man- 
ner he opened his eyes and stared at his niece. 

4 Jane Anne has that fatal old-maidish look, ’ her 
aunt was wont to say in apology for her appear- 
ance. She was a short woman, with mouse- col- 
oured hair and pale eyes, her lips parted slightly 
over her rather prominent teeth, and as she spoke 
she smiled a little deprecating smile. She was 
going out with her aunt, and wore her hat and 
mantle, and she carried a little reticule, with the 
hasp of which her nervous fingers kept fidgeting 
as she spoke. She seated herself beside her uncle. 
4 I have come to tell you something of importance,’ 
she said waveringly. 

Jerningham thrust out a finger, pointing at her, 
4 And I have to tell you something of importance 
— You look so foolish in that hat. It ’s more like 
a thing for Dinah than for you. ’ 

Jane Anne gasped a little. 4 Well, well, what 
is it ? ’ he asked, stretching out his hand for the 
newspaper that lay beside him, and running his 
eye over its columns. 

‘I must tell you,’ she went on, ‘that I have 
taken a step of which I hope you may approve.’ 

4 What ’s that ? ’ he said, without looking up. 
4 Hot thinking of getting married, are you ? Late 
in the day ! Some fellow been making up to you 
for my money ? ’ 


6 


OYER THE HILLS 


4 1— I — I am sure that is not his reason,’ said 
Miss Jerningham hastily, and her face grew red. 

4 Eh ! Oh ho ! So that ’s it ! — he ’s hard up, 
I suppose. ’ Her uncle burst out laughing. 4 He ’s 
young too, no doubt. Who is it ? Forbes ? Ho, 
he wants something different ! Come, tell me — 
you ’re very proud of such a conquest, I ’ll be 
bound. ’ 

4 I do not think that you know him, uncle. He 
has written to you, I understand. ’ 

4 Oh, no doubt. ’ He glanced at the pile of 
letters on the writing-table. 4 I haven’t opened 
my letters yet. What is he ? Nothing, I sup- 
pose — another penniless adventurer.’ 

4 He is Mr. Campbell of Glarn.’ 

4 The deuce he is ! And who is 44 Mr. Camp- 
bell of Glarn,” and where did you pick him up ? ’ 

4 He is a minister. ’ 

4 1 daresay ! A minister ! They ’re all alike — 
they ’d lick my boots for a five-pound note. Where 
did you meet him, I say ? That ’s what comes of 
women like you hunting off to prayer-meetings 
and nonsense of that sort. A minister ! ’ 

4 Mr. Campbell is a landed proprietor too, 
uncle,’ said Jane Anne, her voice rising, her face 
flushing, 4 and I made his acquaintance at Aunt 
Sophie’s.’ 

4 What ! Aunt Sophie’s old beau ! Ah ! I 
know where we are now — a fellow with an old 


OYER THE HILLS 


7 


house, and as much land as would lie on that mat, 
and a hundred a year ! A landed proprietor ! a 
minister ! Neither one nor other — neither fish, 
flesh, nor good red herring. 5 He laughed again, 
genially, at Jane Anne’s discomfiture. 4 A wid- 
ower too,’ he went on ; 4 Aunt Sophie wouldn’t 
look at him. He ’s been married two or three 
times, I declare ! A son ! Oh, I remember.’ 

4 Mr. Campbell has only been married once be- 
fore, uncle.’ 

4 Well, and two makes twice— quite enough. 
D’ you remember Allan’s story, Jane Anne, of the 
widower who 44 aye liket the leevin’ wife an’ the 
last bairn best ?” He ’s that kind, is he ? ’ 

4 Uncle, I,’ — began the poor woman, then, for 
she had some experience of her uncle’s character, 
she struggled to speak with calmness. 

4 Mr. Campbell is not in very good health ’ 

4 And he is in want of money. He wants your 
attractions’ — this with a glance that made his 
niece wince— 4 and my money. Very good — I ’ll 
find his note and send him about his business when 
I tell him you ’ve only forty pounds a year of your 
own.’ He lifted his letters from the table, and 
waved his hand to dismiss her. 

Jane Anne stood up. 4 1 hope you won’t do 
that, sir,’— she drew a long breath,— 4 for I mean 
to marry him. ’ 

Jerningham rose to his feet. He seldom raised 


8 


OYEE THE HILLS 


his voice, trusting always rather to the matter 
than the manner of his speech. 6 Come, come,’ 
he said, just in his usual quick genial way, £ this 
won’t do— this is utter nonsense — marry ! you 
marry ! a withered old maid like you — no man 
alive would ever want to marry you except for 
what he thought he ’d get with you. I ’ll make 
it plain enough to him that he won’t get any of 
my money to patch up his old house with, and if 
he takes you after that, I ’m surprised.’ He 
laughed again in a jovial sort of way. 

Jane Anne waited until the last chuckle had 
died in his throat, then she drew herself up. ‘ I’ve 

lived in your house, sir, for thirty years ’ 

c Hearer forty,’ put in her uncle jocularly. 

‘ For most of my life,’ she went on, ‘ and you 
have given me food and clothes, and I thank you 
for that, but I ’ve never had a kind word from 
you or an hour of care, and I am going now to 
some one who will not insult me at any rate.’ 

She attempted to speak with dignity, but the 
art is not learnt in a moment, and this was the 
first time that she had ever tried it : as she spoke 
the little bag she was holding slipped from her 
hands, and its contents, a small Bible and some 
religious leaflets, were scattered on the floor. 

Jerningham pushed the Bible towards her with 
the point of his toe — standing with his hands in 
his pockets. ‘ Take up that trash, ’ he said, ‘ and 


OYER THE HILLS 


0 


go away, and make a fool of yourself if you like 
— I ’ll not prevent you. You ’ll have a husband 
anyhow, if that ’s all you ’re wanting — only don’t 
come whimpering to me for money when you find 
you can’t make ends meet.’ 

Jane Anne, with a crimson face, stooped to lift 
the Bible, and left the room without another word. 


CHAPTER II 


There was a very quiet wedding in the end of 
March — the bleakest season in that bleak northern 
town. Mrs. Jerningham had persuaded her hus- 
band to allow it to be in his house, also to give the 
bride a scanty trousseau, ‘ for, ’ as she said, ‘ we 
won’t have to support her any longer, and she ’s 
less likely to be asking for things later on if she 
gets some clothes now.’ 

There was but one person in the household who 
regretted Jane Anne’s departure — her young 
cousin Dinah, Jerningham’s only child. She was 
then a girl about sixteen, and of late had gone to 
school in the neighbourhood. The life in those 
parts at that time was much more intense and 
concentrated than it is in a provincial town at the 
present day; and the daughters of more distin- 
guished, if not wealthier, men than Mr. Jerning- 
ham were not sent to schools in the south. So, 
though Dinah would be an heiress, and though her 
parents were both anxious that she should shine in 
society in the future, they never thought of any 
other means of education. She spent the week 


OVER TIIE HILLS 


11 


at Miss Macneil’s Establishment, coming back to 
Ubster every Saturday, and returning to school on 
Monday morning. 

Dinah had always been a great pet of her cous- 
in’s. Jane Anne it was who had had patience 
with all her faults as a child. She had naturally 
been terribly spoilt, especially after the death of 
her little brother — the darling of Mrs. Jerning- 
ham’s heart, who had died from choking on the 
stone of a plum given him by the fond mother. 
After his death, but for her cousin’s influence, 
Dinah’s temper would have remained quite un- 
checked. In some strange way, not certainly by 
force of character, Jane Anne had gained control 
over the child. 

When the little thing’s heart was bursting with 
black temper (she would set her teeth and sulk for 
hours) : when Mrs. Jerningham’s endearments 
and lavish promises of sweets had failed to move 
her : when the sharper efforts of an irritated nurse 
had only made her sulk the more ; then Jane 
Anne would come quietly into the nursery saying, 
4 Dinah, dear, do you remember what I told you 
on Sunday about Jesus — about being good ? ’ or 
some such simple words, and after a minute Dinah 
would break into a sob, cling with her arms about 
her cousin’s neck, and the temper would disappear. 
As she grew up, Jane Anne’s timid religious min- 
istrations became less frequent. She was afraid 


OYER THE HILLS 


12 

to speak now to the tall, solemn-eyed girl that 
Dinah had become, nor indeed did Dinah any 
longer seem to require those gentle reproofs. She 
was wonderfully calm and self-contained for her 
age. Knowing her power, she treated both her 
parents and other people with a high hand. It 
was Jane Anne now who had begun to lean on 
Dinah ; so, at first, she was afraid to meet the 
girl after the announcement of her marriage had 
become public. Dinah came home as usual on 
Saturday morning. Jane Anne, who was waiting 
in the drawing-room, heard her come upstairs ask- 
ing, 4 Where is Jane Anne, mother ? ’ Then the 
door opened, and Dinah came in. She ran up to 
her cousin and flung her arms round her neck. 

4 O Janie, I wish Mr. Campbell was dead,’ was 
her tactful speech. It relieved Jane Anne’s feel- 
ings as nothing else would have done. She took 
Dinah’s hand, sat down beside her, and had the 
first moment of sympathy which she had yet ex- 
perienced from any one. 

4 1 have heard all about it,’ said Dinah ; 4 Annie 
Fraser lives at Glarn, you know. She lives quite 
near to Mr. Campbell : she knows the boy.’ She 
looked a little doubtfully at Jane Anne as she spoke. 

4 1 wish that I could take you with me, Dinah,’ 
said the older woman, 4 1 mind nothing except 
leaving you— you will grow up and forget all 
about me when I am gone. ’ 


OVER THE HILLS 


13 


‘Ho, I do not think I shall,’ Dinah answered 
gravely. 

The wedding day was bitterly cold ; between 
the effect of tears shed overnight, and a red nose, 
Jane Anne looked, even for her, singularly plain, 
when she entered the big dining-room where the 
few guests were assembled. 

Jerningham himself had gone away on business 
the week before. 4 There will be no fuss,’ said 
his wife, 4 so we needn’t have in any one extra. 
The servants can cook the lunch quite well.’ Be- 
sides Dinah, there was one bridesmaid, a friend 
about Jane Anne’s own age, who had a complete 
assortment of false teeth, and wore an unfortunate 
shade of green. The bridegroom arrived a minute 
late, accompanied by a very silent friend — none 
of his relatives were present. 

His imposing presence astonished the guests not 
a little. He waved his hand condescendingly to 
Mrs. Jerningham when she began to speak to him, 
not listening to a word that she said. 4 A trifle 
late, a trifle late, ’ he murmured, speaking with a 
curious Highland accent, 4 the coach was delayed, 
but it ’s of no consequence, we were warmly wrapt 
up, pray don’t distress yourself at all.’ When 
the ceremony had been performed, and Jane Anne 
was getting ready to leave, he stood with a glass 
of wine in his hand, taller than most of the men 
in the room, glancing about him, and addressing, 


14 


OYER THE HILLS 


in his low hoarse voice, a few bland remarks to 
Mrs. Jerningham. ‘ We will hope to see you at 
Glarn some day, madam,’ he said in farewell ; 
‘ I ’m sure Mrs. Campbell will be delighted to wel- 
come you. ’ He handed his bride into the carriage 
with a great air, wrapping himself up in countless 
shawls and cloaks, again waved a condescending 
hand, and they drove away. 

‘ The creature ! ’ exclaimed Mrs. Jerningham, 
‘ one would have thought he was made of money.’ 

‘ It ’s an out-of-the-way place, she ’s as good as 
dead, but she ’s married anyhow, and that ’s more 
than I ever expected,’ she added to the brides- 
maid, who was taking her leave. The few guests 
departed quickly. 

For perhaps two days there was some conversa- 
tion in the town about the wedding, and then 
every one excepting Dinah had forgotten all about 
Jane Anne. I doubt if there was any one a week 
afterwards who remembered her existence, or 
wondered what the new home was like to which 
she had gone. Fate had long ago written against 
her name the sentence of unimportance — 

‘ None shall ask thee what thou doest. 

Or care a rush for what thou knowest. 

Or listen when thou replies t, 

Or remember where thou liest, 

Or how thy supper is sodden.’ 

As the carriage drove out of the rattling streets 


OYER THE HILLS 


15 


of Ubster, and took the white road that unrolled 
itself like a ribbon on the moor beyond the town, 
Dinah stood at the window and wept. How could 
she guess that the chain of her fortunes also was 
carried by Jane Anne into that unknown future 
4 over the hills and far away. ’ 


CHAPTER III 


You could ‘ hear the grass grow 9 about the old 
house of Glarn. A bleak little place it was, lonely 
and bare : a little bleak house with ‘ harled 5 walls 
and small windows. It stood solitary on the moor, 
without fence or garden : and sometimes the cat- 
tle straying down from the hills would stand so 
close to the little windows that their breath 
dimmed the panes as they huddled shoulder to 
shoulder gazing in at the fire. In summer too, 
when the casements stood open, the sheep cropping 
the turf about the house would lift their noses to 
snuff at the window ledges, shying off in alarm at 
any movement from within : and in the dawn of 
the morning, before the household was astir, the 
feet of the beasts might be heard on the very 
threshold. 

On a chilly evening in the beginning of April 
Jane Anne had arrived at her new home. 

Glarn was distant from Ubster as the crow flies 
about seventy miles, but the coach road rounded 
the angle of the coast, and the journey took two 
or three days to perform. She had felt as they 


OYER THE HILLS 


17 


drove along, sometimes for ten or twelve hours at 
a time, without passing more than one or two 
shepherds’ huts, as if she were going into an awful 
remoteness from which there could be no return. 
How, tired and tashed after her long journey, she 
stood in one of the tiny dark bedrooms looking 
about her in a bewildered kind of way. Town 
born and town bred as she was, this huge silence, 
broken only by the bleating of the sheep, choked 
her with a sense of oppression. 

How dark the house was ! how small and lonely, 
with its narrow flagged passages and bare rooms 
that had an acrid musty smell. Accustomed as 
she had always been to luxurious living it struck 
her with dismay. 

Often in fancy she had pictured every detail of 
her new home, and though her imagination per- 
haps was somewhat trite, she had looked into the 
future with confused hope. 

But this was all so different from what she had 
imagined. Where was the charming country 
parish ? — those savage hills ? Where were the 
parishioners whose homes she had hoped ‘ to 
brighten ’ ? She saw none but the sheep. And 
was she to have no neighbours ? For the last six 
miles as they drove to Glarn she had seen only 
two or three little grey huts : but as they drew 
near the house she discerned a group of trees on a 
knoll opposite, and looked out eagerly for some 


18 


OYEE THE HILLS 


sign of habitation, then she saw that it was a little 
—a very little— old, low, dilapidated church. 

Her husband as they drove past pointed to the 
few sunken gravestones that were barely visible 
amongst the rank grass. ‘ That, ’ he said, ‘ is our 
burying-place. Many generations of our family 
lie there, and there I hope you and I may one 
day repose. ’ 

£ I — I hope so,’ said Jane Anne lamely, for she 
saw that he considered it a privilege. With this 
cheerful sentence in her ears, the carriage drew 
up at the door of the melancholy house. There 
was immediately a sound of scuffling within, and 
with strange howlings and sharp barks, three or 
four terriers came scrambling out, jumping about 
the master’s knees. Jane Anne was a little afraid 
of dogs, and kept saying, ‘ Down, down, dear, ’ to 
them, pushing them gently away, but they only 
yapped the more, and scratched at her velvet 
pelisse. Ho servants appeared, and there was no 
other sign of life about the house. 

‘ Go in, go in,’ said her husband ; ‘ they cannot 
have expected us so soon.’ Jane Anne stepped 
into the hall, and presently there came rolling up 
the narrow passage from the kitchen regions a 
fat old woman. She wore a tartan shawl pinned 
across her shoulders, and her face was red and 
grim. 

She courtesied to her master, saying something 


OYER THE HILLS 


19 


in Gaelic which Jane Anne could not understand, 
and received her own timid greeting with a dry 
murmur of, ‘ I hope yer pretty well, ma’am. ’ She 
then conducted her new mistress upstairs, and left 
her without any offer of assistance. 

Jane Anne glanced about her with dismay, no- 
ticing the wooden bedstead, the small bleared mir- 
ror, the meagre dimensions of the room, and won- 
dering vaguely where she was going to put all her 
new clothes. 

This was a transplantation such as she had never 
imagined. Where was the dignified if simple 
country house that Mr. Campbell had alluded to 
as ‘ the home of my ancestors ’ ? Where were the 
servants ? Was that purple-faced old woman the 
cook, the housekeeper ? Could she ring her bell, 
and get a light, she wondered, for she could hardly 
see well enough to take her things out of her 
boxes. She opened the lid of one of the trunks, 
and began with slow fidgety movements to take 
out some of her dresses, and lay them in the draw- 
ers, but her head was throbbing so violently that 
it made her giddy. In despair she sank down on 
her knees by the open window leaning her head 
upon her hands. 

Out of doors the pensive April twilight lingered 
on, though a pale fragment of golden moon had 
risen in the clear sky. The air was chill, and still, 
and tender with the first premonitions of spring. 


20 


OVEK THE HILLS 


Down below the little church on the opposite 
hillside there was a running burn ; the sound of 
it, incessant, thin, and scarcely audible, smote 
upon her ears, accustomed to the cheerful noises 
of a town, with an unendurable dreariness, so that 
she hid her face in her hands and shivered. It 
was like a sudden relief to pain, when she heard 
all at once a burst of laughter, pretty, girlish 
laughter, and then the sound of footsteps and a 
man’s voice calling out, 

‘ Is that you, Annie ? ’ 

‘ Yes — I ’m going home. Has she come ? ’ 

‘ Yes— I haven’t seen her yet. I was out when 
they arrived. ’ 

‘ Is she dreadful ? ’ asked the girl. Jane Anne 
did not catch the reply. She rose instantly, anx- 
ious not to listen ; at that moment the door 
opened, without any previous knock, and a tall 
unkempt servant-girl appeared upon the threshold. 
‘ Supper’s in,’ she said, and disappeared. 

Jane Anne glanced out at the window, and saw 
a girl walking swiftly away across the grass in 
front of the house. She waved her hand to some 
one standing at the door, and as she went, Jane 
Anne caught another echo of faint laughter. 

Slowly and timidly she then made her way 
downstairs, pausing in the passage before she took 
courage to enter the dining-room, where at a table, 
insufficiently lighted by a pair of candles, her hus- 


OYER THE HILLS 


21 


band stood talking to a tall young man. This 
must be Lewis, her stepson. She did not dare 
even to look at him as she came in. 

The table was spread with a meagre repast. At 
one end a piece of mutton ham and a plate of oat- 
cakes : a decanter, and a jug of hot water ; at the 
other, a battered tea-tray, on which stood a huge 
dim metal teapot and some cracked teacups. 

4 I thought you might like some tea, my dear,’ 
said Mr. Campbell ; 4 and allow me to present you 
to your stepson Lewis. Lewis, this is your step- 
mother.’ 

4 1 am very glad to see you,’ faltered Jane Anne, 
raising her eyes to his face. 

Of all the scenes that lay before her in married 
life, there was none on which her imagination had 
dwelt so often and so fondly as this of her first 
meeting with her stepson. 

How often she had pictured him ! A tall 
4 youth ’ — so she always dubbed him in her own 
mind — somewhat rustic in dress and manner, but 
with an ingenuous countenance and a shy smile. 
She had dwelt upon the motherly kindness with 
which she would smooth the locks off his open 
forehead, and press it with a mother’s kiss. . . . 
She raised her eyes now, and saw a young man 
about eighteen, thin, light, and very strongly 
made. His hair was dark, curling slightly at the 
edges, and the top locks of it were bleached by 


22 


OVEE THE HILLS 


the sun to a lighter colour than the rest. His fair 
skin was so freckled that it looked as if it were 
painted with tan. He carried himself with a sin- 
gular grace and assurance, and looked at her with 
a pair of blue unflinching eyes that made Jane 
Anne drop hers desperately. She had extended 
her hand to him, but immediately she became 
aware that as he stood before her he held both his 
hands behind his back. 

‘ Did you not observe that your stepmother was 
going to shake hands with you, Lewis ? ’ said his 
father. 

‘ Yes, sir/ he replied promptly, 4 1 did.’ 

‘ Then what do you mean ? 5 began Mr. Camp- 
bell, but Jane Anne glanced at him imploringly. 

‘ Oh ! please, it does not matter — I mean — it is 
of no consequence at all,’ she said with a nervous 
laugh, and taking her seat hurriedly at the head 
of the table began to pour milk into the teapot. 

Dead silence ensued for the next few minutes, 
then Jane Anne made an effort to collect herself. 

‘ I thought that I heard a girl’s voice outside, a 
few minutes ago,’ she said timidly, addressing 
herself to the young man. ‘ I did not know that 
we had any near neighbours.’ 

‘ A girl ? ’ said her husband inquiringly. 

£ Annie Fraser, sir,’ said Lewis, without look- 
ing up. 

‘ Ah, Annie Fraser. Yes, my dear, we have 


OVER THE HILLS 


23 


neighbours in a bodily sense,’ said Mr. Campbell, 

‘ although, unfortunately, I at least can claim no 
mental affinity with Father Fraser— he is a priest. 
His niece, whose voice you must have heard just 
now, is an engaging young person, and of course 
she is not to blame for her uncle’s position. ’ 

‘ Do they live near here ? ’ Jane Anne asked, 
glad to think of any female society. 

‘ They live at Edderty, about a mile and a half 
away,’ said Lewis briefly. 

‘ You could not see it — it is on the other side of 
the wood there — nearer the sea,’ Mr. Campbell 
explained. ‘ Many of the poor fisher people along 
the coast are Roman Catholics.’ 

Jane Anne remembered suddenly that her cousin 
Dinah had told her, that one of the girls who was 
at school along with her knew the Campbells, and 
lived near Glarn. It seemed a cheerful link with 
home ; she brightened at the thought, remember- 
ing that Dinah’s holidays had begun. This girl, 
then, would be in the neighbourhood for some 
time. She could go to see her — would show her 
that she was not ‘ dreadful.’ She remembered 
that one of her favourite books told of the conver- 
sion of a young Roman Catholic lady who after- 
wards became an earnest Protestant. Perhaps 
this was the first work that she was to be called 
to at Glarn. 

During these reflections the silent meal had 


24 


OYER THE HILLS 


come to an end. Mr. Campbell then retired to 
his study. He was a great genealogist, and occu- 
pied himself continually amongst old papers and 
forgotten books, hunting up some ‘ lapsed title,’ 
or verifying obscure points in the history of a 
great family. His own descent — traced back to 
Pictish chiefs of unpronounceable names— was 
written out large on the walls of the study. He 
had conducted Jane Anne into the little drawing- 
room — an apartment evidently uninhabited since 
the death of her predecessor — and there had 
showed her a screen painted with his own coat-of- 
arms, and the lozenge belonging to the deceased 
lady. 

‘ Had your family any descent to speak of ? ’ he 
said ; but he spoke kindly, not offensively, merely 
as a specialist on his own subject. ( I should have 
been glad to have had a tree made out on your ac- 
count, but, from what I can learn, your uncle’s 
family is of very humble origin.’ 

Jane Anne laughed, for almost the first time in 
his presence. ‘ Oh,’ she said, remembering as she 
spoke her uncle’s exclamations about her husband, 

‘ my uncle’s father was old Mr. Yan der Hulst’s 
office-boy, I believe. I don’t suppose he knows 
who his grandfather was at all.’ 

‘ Well, well, the wife takes rank from her hus- 
band,’ said Mr. Campbell. To him the subject 
was a delicate one, and he scarcely understood 


OYER THE HILLS 


25 


how his wife could treat it with a smile. When 
he had left her, Jane Anne took a seat by the 
window, wondering how she should ever get accus- 
tomed to these new surroundings. She was too 
tired now to go upstairs and unpack her boxes. 
She could not intrude upon her husband in the 
study, and she was afraid of staying alone with 
her stepson ; so she sat on, chilled and miserable, 
gazing from the dreary room out at the desolate 
moor ; at last, when a cow came outside the win- 
dow, and one of its horns actually tapped the 
glass, and the light glittered on its eyes, she could 
stand it no longer. She was sure that in another 
moment the creature would crash into the room. 
She rose hurriedly, and backed to the door, not 
daring to take the candles with her. The dining- 
room was dark, but it felt warm in contrast to the 
deadly chill in the other room : she groped her 
way towards the fireplace, and sat down, glad to 
close her eyes and lean back her aching head. 

Was it all, she thought, going to be a miserable 
mistake ? She had never expected much in life, 
but now it seemed a cruel cheat that when unasked 
(for she had at first been much surprised by Mr. 
Campbell’s proposal), something new and good 
had come to her, it should all turn out a fraud. 
‘ Which of you,’ she thought, ‘ if his son ask for 
bread will give him a stone ? ’ Had she not hoped 
humbly for some affection, some one to care for, 


26 


OYER THE HILLS 


and be loved by in return, and now the boy on 
whom she had been prepared to lavish so much 
seemed determined to insult her. Then she began 
to reproach herself for this feeling of ingratitude. 
She was unused to finding fault with Providence, 
and hastened to lay all the blame upon herself. 
If it were a mistake, it must be her own fault, 
because she had been headstrong, and had 4 taken 
such a step 5 without sufficient prayer and consid- 
eration. 

Almost unawares she had begun to weep, find- 
ing the tears a relief. But then the door opened, 
and she heard the voice of her stepson. 4 Bother 
Phemie ! ’ he said ; 4 what has she done with the 
light ? ’ The fire was very dim now. He could 
not see that there was any one there. Jane Anne 
held her breath, hoping fervently that he would 
go away. She knew that her voice was so choked 
that she could not speak without sobbing. The 
young man walked up to the fireplace, and bent 
down, feeling about for a match-box on the little 
table by her side. 

4 Hullo ! ’ he exclaimed, 4 who ’s this ? ’ Jane 
Anne struggled to speak, but she only managed a 
sniffing sob. 

Lewis struck a light, and it flared up for a mo- 
ment, showing her face. When he saw it, he 
dropped the match into the grate without attempt- 
ing to fight the candles, stood beside her in silence, 


OYER THE HILLS 


27 


and then suddenly he knelt down on the rug and 
threw one arm round her. 

4 Feeling lonely ? 5 

4 Oh yes,’ she said, shrinking away a little ; she 
was not accustomed to any man’s arm. 

4 Don’t, don’t cry,’ he said ; but the poor woman, 
overwrought as she was, at the kind sound of his 
voice broke down altogether. 

4 I am afraid that I have made a mistake, ’ she 
sobbed ; 4 I ought never to have come here — have 
undertaken duties — oh,’ she added, 4 I wanted to 
be a mother to you. ’ 

4 I don’t want a mother, ’ he said ; then, taking 
hold of her hot and trembling hands, 4 Come, you 
must not be so unhappy, you ’re strange to every- 
thing just now. It ’s not your fault,’ he added, 
as if to himself. Jane Anne turned with a move- 
ment— a piteous little impulse of confidence — to 
him, and he bent down his head and kissed her 
cheek. ‘I know I ’m a scapegrace,’ he said, 
4 father will be the first to tell you so, but perhaps 
we ’ll get on well enough. You must not be afraid 
of us all. Phemie ’s all right when she ’s in a 
good humour. ’ 

4 She looks severe,’ said Jane Anne, thinking of 
the grim red face. 

4 Oh, I ’ll help you with her. I ’m always in 
favour. ’ 

4 1 wish,’ she said, after a minute, 4 that the 


28 


OVER THE HILLS 


animals did not come quite so near to the 
house. ’ 

£ The animals ? ’ said Lewis. He had poked up 
the fire and was standing now looking down at 
her, and Jane Anne had dried her eyes, and felt 
quite disposed for conversation. 

‘ Yes,’ she explained with hesitation. c A cow , 
when I was in the other room, came so close to 
the window that I thought it was coming in.’ 

Lewis burst into uncontrollable laughter ; she 
thought the sound of it delightful. Perhaps she 
had not made such a mistake in her marriage 
after all. 


CHAPTER IV 


The village of Edderty was a mere cluster of little 
houses, with three or four others scattered rather 
apart along the shore. 

The priest’s house, which faced due south, and 
was partially sheltered by the hill that lay behind 
Glarn, was the sunniest spot in the whole parish. 
It had quite a little garden, a cheerful sight in 
those parts where horticulture was unknown. 
Father Fraser’s predecessor had been a man with 
a passion for flowers, and by dint of much skilful 
contriving of walls and hedges, aided by the shel- 
tered situation, he had induced them to grow. 

Ivy covered the wall of the house, and the gar- 
den itself was on three sides enclosed by high 
beech hedges. Common hardy blossoms only 
would flourish there, but at Edderty they looked 
like the most brilliant exotics. 

Father Fraser was blind : he could not see the 
flowers : but he would stand among them enjoy- 
ing their sweetness, as only the blind can do. lie 
had lived alone at Edderty for some years until 
his niece Annie, then a little child, came to live 


30 


OYER THE HILLS 


with him, then the house became more cheer- 
ful. 

The child’s appearance there had at first caused 
grave scandals amongst the Protestants of the 
neighbourhood, who, without knowing the expres- 
sion ‘ a cardinal’s niece,’ had freely applied con- 
jectures that amounted to the same thing. 

After a while, however, an explanation was 
given, for an old maid who came with the child 
was roused by the hints of the neighbours into 
telling the whole story — which was so unpleasant 
that it was at once accepted as the truth. Father 
Fraser’s brother (so the story said), also a priest, 
had run away with a certain lady of high rank. 
He died in America. Some years afterwards, she, 
it was hinted, had poisoned herself, and the child 
came to live with her uncle. Her education was 
paid for by her mother’s relatives, who, as she 
grew older, had sent her to a school near Ubster, 
so now the old priest lived alone, except during 
the holidays, when Annie came back to Edderty. 

Her relatives had stipulated that she should be 
sent to a Protestant school ; and her uncle, who 
was far too poor to have paid for her education 
himself, was obliged to agree to this, only stipu- 
lating that she should receive no direct religious 
instruction. In consequence, the girl was brought 
up between two opinions. At home, her uncle, 
whose piety she could not doubt, alluded to Prot- 


OYER THE HILLS 


31 


estants as heretics ; and at school Catholics were 
regarded as living in benighted superstition. 

Annie came quietly to the conclusion that both 
verdicts were equally foolish. The Catholic ex- 
pressions that she had learned in her early child- 
hood came readily to her tongue ; and by habit, 
if she were startled, she would make the sign of 
the cross ; but at Ubster she went with the rest 
of the school to the Presbyterian church. 

The acquaintance between Annie and Lewis 
Campbell had begun when they were little chil- 
dren. Knowing each other intimately by sight, 
their guardians had never allowed them to speak, 
and they were supposed to know nothing of one 
another. There happened, however, to be a point 
of meeting where, in the most natural way in the 
world, they became better acquainted than their 
elders knew. 

In a lonely hut on the moors that lay between 
Glarn and the sea there lived an old woman who 
had been baptized a Catholic ; but as she had mar- 
ried a Protestant, she had lapsed from the Church 
for a space of years, and was finally regarded by 
both communions as a strayed sheep to be gath- 
ered in. She had no visible means of support ; 
for as the parish in those days took no notice of 
any of those who did not fling themselves directly 
on its mercy, so she was dependent on 4 givings ’ 
from the minister and the priest, and such small 


32 


OYER THE HILLS 


offerings as the cottagers deemed necessary to 
avert the evil eye. 

She steered most gracefully between the two 
rival communions. When Mr. Campbell himself 
paid her a visitation, she crouched on the mud 
floor while he read aloud to her in Gaelic a suit- 
able scripture, and followed the verses with sighs 
of appreciation. She knelt devoutly to receive 
Father Fraser’s blessing when he came to her 
door ; and inside her ‘ box-bed ’ had pinned up, 
side by side, with fine impartiality, a coloured 
card representing the glories of the Sacred Heart, 
along with a neat Protestant picture of the old- 
fashioned type, showing the missionary under the 
banyan tree preaching to an attentive negro audi- 
ence. 

The two children used to meet often at her 
house, Lewis sent by his mother with a rabbit or 
a can of milk, Annie carrying perhaps a plate of 
cold pudding, or a little tea. Lewis at that time 
was a lanky boy, in a shabby kilt of the green 
Campbell tartan, with scratched knees, and an im- 
mense idea of his own importance ; Annie a small 
child, dainty in her speech and movements, wear- 
ing a round hood tied under her chin, and as yet 
firmly convinced that she might meet the Blessed 
Virgin at any turn. She tried hard to convert 
Lewis to this belief ; and after having said a prayer 
to beseech Our Lady to appear to them as she did 


OVER, THE HILLS 


33 


to Joan of Arc, she had once induced him to kneel 
with her in a corner of the deserted sheep-fank for 
nearly half-an-hour, in expectation of the vision. 

‘ She wouldn’t appear because you were a nasty 
Protestant,’ said Annie unabashed, when at length 
they rose in despair, Lewis rubbing his aching 
knees. 

It was Annie who had been sagacious enough 
to give him to understand that those meetings 
were not to be alluded to at home. ‘ My people 
wouldn’t like it,’ she said. When Catherine, her 
nurse, discovered in her possession a cork cage, 
set round with pins, containing two bumble-bees, 
and had questioned her severely on the subject, 
she answered without hesitation that it had been 
given to her by Our Lady, who had come down 
on a little pink cloud to present it to her the night 
before. Lewis, on the other hand, could not tell 
a he, and he found it difficult to evade the truth, 
so that when, some time after this, his mother 
found him crying, he blubbered out that Annie 
Fraser’s nurse had died of scarlet fever, and now 
Annie had got it, and was going to die and go to 
hell. It was true enough : Annie had taken the 
fever, and was very ill. The people in those parts 
had an insane dread of infectious diseases, and the 
servant-maid had run away, leaving Father Fraser 
alone to attend to the child as best he could. 

On hearing this news, Mrs. Campbell had gone 


34 


OYER THE HILLS 


at once to Edderty. She nursed Annie through the 
fever : but when she came back, she took it her- 
self and died. It made a strange tie of connection 
between the two households, and after that Lewis 
and Annie were allowed to meet as they liked. 
But Mr. Campbell and Father Fraser, if by chance 
they encountered each other in the round of their 
parish duties, never exchanged more than a few 
words. 

On the day following Jane Anne’s arrival at 
Glarn, Lewis walked over to Edderty. It was a 
fine morning, and the priest’s house, as usual, was 
full of sunshine. He came up the little path that 
led to the house, and without knocking, opened 
the door of the sitting-room, and looked in. 

Annie Fraser was sitting on the floor, darning 
away at an altar-cloth spread out on her knee. 
She lifted her head and nodded to Lewis as he en- 
tered, holding her fingers to her lips, and pointing 
to the window, where the old priest sat fallen 
asleep in his chair. The sun streamed in through 
the uncurtained window, striking full upon her 
face, glittering too on the gold edges of the cloth. 
She was a thin slip of a girl, about seventeen, with 
irregular features, and rather prominent pale blue 
eyes, that darkened suddenly with interest or ex- 
citement as she spoke. She had delicate dark eye- 
brows, and her hair, so fair as to look almost 
white, fell in soft untidy locks over her forehead. 


OVER THE HILLS 


35 


‘ Are you busy ? ’ Lewis asked under his breath. 

‘ Oh, just patching away at this old altar-cloth, 
as usual,’ laughed the girl. ‘ I think it ’s time 
that the Blessed Virgin sent us a new one.’ She 
motioned Lewis not to tread on the edges of the 
cloth, and then leant her head on one side, and 
examined the stitches she had just put in. She 
wore an old shabby black dress, and a skein of 
pink silk that hung over her left shoulder was the 
only touch of colour about her. It was the com- 
plete absence of any touch of self-consciousness 
that made her movements so charming to watch. 
‘ That lamb wants an eye again, I declare,’ she 
went on. ‘ Hand me a bead from the table, 
Lewis — that little black one will do. Well, what 
is she like ? Is she dreadful ? ’ 

‘No,’ said Lewis doubtfully, ‘not at all- 

only ’ 

‘ Only what ? ’ 

‘ Oh — only good,’ he answered, playing with 
the tarnished gold fringe that edged the altar- 
cloth, and not looking at her as he spoke. 

‘ Could anything be worse ! ’ said the girl. ‘ I 
guessed it would be like that. Dinah Jerningham 
told me she was good. You don’t know how to 
treat a stepmother, Lewis ! ’ 

‘ What would you do with one ? Hate her ? ’ 

‘ Not at all,’ said Annie, making dabs with her 
needle at the Virgin’s crown as she spoke, ‘ make 


36 


OYER THE HILLS 


her hate you — that ’s much better. If you hate 
any one, you just make yourself unhappy, and 
give them a chance to forgive you— as Mr. Camp- 
bell does to uncle,’ she added in parenthesis. 
‘ But if you can just manage to make them hate 
you, it hurts much more, and you can be good all 
the time. I do that at school.’ 

She took the silk from her shoulder as she spoke, 
and tossed one end of it to him to hold, while she 
pulled the thread. ‘ If your stepmother is a pious 
person, she ’ll pray for you ; you can’t prevent 
that ; it doesn’t do much harm. Whenever I 
know that Miss Inks has been praying for me, I 
go and put everything in my room very tidy, and 
then when she comes in, prepared to keep her 
temper, and finds everything just as she wishes it 
— o-o-o ! ’ She went off into an ecstasy of laugh- 
ter at the thought — laughter that had just the 
sound of shallow water running over stones. 

‘ Hush, hush, you ’ll waken him ! ’ said Lewis, 
glancing at the old man, who was sleeping very 
quietly, his gentle, simple face with the sunken 
blind eyes raised to the light. He was not very 
well cared for : unshaven and shabby : and his 
cassock was stained where he dropped his food 
down the front. There was nothing of the ‘ min- 
istering angel’ about Annie’s relations to her 
uncle : she thought if his clothes were not abso- 
lutely torn that she did her duty very well. ‘ Oh, 


OYER THE HILLS 


37 


he won’t hear. He always sleeps soundly after 
dinner ! I’m sure I wish that uncle could go and 
marry somebody, like your father,’ she added, 

4 then there would be some one to look after him, 
and do this kind of thing, ’ she tugged at her work 
impatiently. 4 Well, I can’t have a stepmother — 
or a step-aunt — anyway, that ’s a blessing. ’ 

4 I think I like her, ’ said Lewis suddenly. 

The girl stared at him, incredulous. 4 What in 
the world has she done to make you like her ? ’ 

4 1 don’t know,’ he answered. 4 She is so help- 
less. ’ 

Annie did not understand that point of view, 
and she was silent. 4 1 ’m going back to school 
on Monday, ’ she said presently. 4 1 won’t see the 
Marquis. He will be in your church next Sun- 
day, I suppose, along with his wife. I wanted to 
see them.’ 

4 Why ? She ’s not pretty, I hear,’ said Lewis. 
4 Oh ! curiosity. I ’ve never seen them. ’ Then 
she added softly, with a glance to make sure that 
her uncle was still asleep : 4 My aunt, Lady Jane, 
is his cousin, you know.’ Lewis nodded. 4 Uncle 
never speaks about him. I should like to see him. ’ 
4 Who, who, my child ? ’ said the old man, wak- 
ing, and hearing the last words. 

4 The Duke of Wellington, uncle,’ said Annie, 
raising her voice clearly ; 4 we were talking about 
him. ’ 


CHAPTER Y 


Miss Macneil’s Establishment for the education 
of young ladies occupied a position very unlike the 
site generally selected for a boarding-school. It 
was a bare whitewashed building, standing within 
high walls that enclosed what by courtesy was de- 
nominated a garden. But no plants or flowers 
could stand the biting winds and showers of spray 
that fell upon the turf whenever the waves ran 
high. The cliffs that descended almost sheer be- 
low the house were of such height, that a glance 
from the upper windows was apt to make a stranger 
feel giddy. 

An austere dwelling, within as well as without 
— the door handles and brasses glittered fearfully, 
and the white parlours were sparsely furnished, 
their chief ornamentation consisting of pencil draw- 
ings in black frames, executed by some of the 
more gifted pupils. 

They were a hardy race up in those parts ; the 
situation of the house, perched on the most ex- 
posed promontory of a bleak coast, was generally 
spoken of as ‘ bracing. ’ 


OVER THE HILLS 


39 


In spite of its austere aspect Miss Macneil’s 
Establishment had long been considered the most 
select in the county. c Finishing 5 was understood 
to be the strong point of her educational system. 
6 Accomplishments , rather than any attempt to 
turn my young pupils into blue-stockings , 5 she 
said. The Early Victorian horror of a learned 
woman still lingered in Ubster. Her young ladies 
read Shakespeare (expurgated by the English gov- 
erness), and Thomson’s ‘ Seasons,’ and their paint- 
ings, especially of fruit, were much admired. It 
was, viewed from the modern standpoint, the echo 
of an echo — the caricature of an absurdity — and 
in its pitiful provincial gentility, its shams, and 
nonsense, something even below what the standard 
of the hour required. But Miss Macneil was a 
good honest woman, and she turned out from her 
Establishment solid, healthy-minded young people, 
who at least had learned no harm in its genteel 
precincts. Hone of them made a worse wife or 
mother because they could tinkle on the piano 
and speak a little ridiculous French or Italian ; 
and life taught the most of them other lessons 
later on. 

Dinah Jerningham and Annie Fraser, being the 
two senior pupils, were admitted to the dignity of 
studying in the parlour in the evenings. Annie 
had returned from Glarn the day before. 

It was a windy night, about nine o’clock, and 


40 


OYER THE HILLS 


the two girls sat side by side at the table prepar- 
ing their lessons for the next day. 

‘ I saw your cousin at darn,’ said Annie. She 
kept a careful finger on the atlas ready to appear 
all attention the moment Miss Macneil should 
come in. ‘ She’s quite old, isn’t she ? About a 
hundred. ’ 

‘I think she’s thirty-five,’ said Dinah, ‘per- 
haps more. ’ 

£ I should think so. She ’s so ugly. ’ 

‘ I shall miss her very much. It won’t be like 
home without her,’ said Dinah. 

‘ Lewis Campbell won’t care much about a step- 
mother, I can tell you,’ remarked Annie again. 

‘ Jane Anne will be very kind to him.’ 

‘ Kind ! ’ said Annie. ‘ To Lewis — o-o-o. ’ 
She threw back her head and laughed. 

‘ Why do you laugh ? Is he not nice ? ’ 

‘ He ’s,’ Annie paused, ( like that , ’ she said, sud- 
denly rapping her knuckles briskly on the table. 

‘ Young ladies ! ’ said Miss Macneil reprovingly 
as she came into the room. Annie’s laughter 
stopped short. She threw an innocent glance at 
her schoolmistress, as if wondering who could have 
made the noise, and then resumed her study of 
the rivers of Spain. Miss Macneil seated herself 
at a respectable distance from the fire — book in 
hand, lips compressed in their usual expression of 
genteel firmness. The room was lighted by two 


OVER THE HILLS 


41 


tall old-fashioned candlesticks that shed a soft light 
on the heads of the girls bending over the atlas. 
There was complete stillness indoors, for the junior 
pupils had all gone to bed, but the wind blew high 
outside, and now and then Dinah would look up 
with her solemn grey eyes as a shower of spray 
spattered against the windows. Though the spring 
evenings were long light, the shutters had been 
closed early to deaden the noise of the wind, and 
the deep sound of the waves breaking on the rocks 
below. 

‘ Did you hear that shout ? ’ said Annie, sud- 
denly looking up with dilating eyes. 

‘ Miss Fraser, are you attending to your studies ? ’ 
said Miss Macneil. The girl flickered her eyelids 
for a moment, pushed the fair hair off her fore- 
head, and bent again over the atlas, pinching 
Dinah’s knee under the table, at the sound — 
the unmistakable sound — of a gun fired out at 
sea. 

Miss Macneil apparently heard nothing. She 
rose with dignity, snuffed the candles, and resumed 
her place by the fire. 

Tick, tick, tick, the clock went on ; a coal fell 
on the hearth ; again the wind and spray slapped 
against the window-panes, while out at sea came 
the bursting sound of the great waves. 

‘ Half -past nine, young ladies ; it is time for 
you to retire,’ said the schoolmistress, so the girls 


42 


OVEK THE HILLS 


gladly put away their books and made her their 
good-night courtesy. 

4 Let us look out at the hall window, and see if 
we can see anything now,’ whispered Annie as 
they went upstairs. But the panes were so wet 
with spray, and the night so dull, that they could 
see nothing. 4 I thought it might have been a 
wreck,’ said Annie, when they were in their own 
room ; 4 but nothing nice ever happens here, ’ she 
added with regret. 

4 Annie, how can you speak like that ? think of 
what it means to other people,’ said Dinah re- 
proachfully, as she stood brush in hand, smooth- 
ing out her long, black hair. 

Annie, whose toilet operations were singularly 
brief, had already wriggled out of her clothes and 
got into bed. 4 Oh ! ’ she retorted, 4 how stupid 
you are, Dinah ! You never understand the half 
of anything. Well, anyway it wasn’t a wreck. 
Good-night. ’ 

Dinah lay awake for some time, until she had 
heard Miss Macneil pass along to her own room. 
Then she fell asleep, but wakened suddenly about 
midnight without knowing what had roused her. 
Annie was sitting up in bed, calling to her in a 
low voice, 4 Dinah ! waken ! ’ 

4 What is it ? ’ said Dinah, still sleepy. The 
wind had died down an hour before, and 
the night was now without a breath. The 


OYER THE HILLS 


43 


brilliant moonshine from without poured into the 
room. 

4 Get up and look out at the window,’ said 
Annie, who had not moved from her own 
bed. 

4 Why ? ’ Dinah demanded. She was accus- 
tomed to Annie’s vagaries at night ; they gener- 
ally resolved themselves into a mouse scratching, 
or the wind in the chimney. But this was some- 
thing more. She heard at the moment the sound 
of footsteps coming trampling over the turf below 
the window, then a loud knocking at the front 
door, and men’s voices talking below. Dinah 
jumped up instantly. 4 I shall go and waken Miss 
Macneil,’ she said ; ‘ she won’t hear in her 
room.’ 

4 Oh, don’t leave me alone,’ cried Annie. 

4 Well, get on your dressing-gown and shoes. 
Come now.’ 

No one in that Establishment had ever been 
known to penetrate the sanctity of Miss Macneil’s 
apartment after the lady had retired for the night, 
so when the girls entered the room, Annie was not 
too much alarmed to forget to squeeze Dinah’s 
arm, pointing silently to the 4 front ’ of grey ring- 
lets that reposed upon the toilet-table. 

They roused Miss Macneil with some difficulty. 
Her first exclamation of 4 Young ladies ! ’ was fol- 
lowed by a command to hand her her dressing- 


44 


OVER THE HILLS 


gown, an antique tartan garment, which she put 
on ; and having assumed the 6 front ’ with a glance 
so severe that even Annie dared not laugh, she 
took the candle, and walked before them into the 
hall. ‘ Make no noise, ’ she said sternly ; ‘ I do 
not wish the household to be disturbed. ’ 

The front hall- window looked out directly over 
the door : Miss Macneil, stepping up to it without 
hesitation (for she was no coward), threw up the 
sash and looked out, Dinah and Annie peering 
over her shoulder. A group of men — sailors ap- 
parently — carrying something between them, were 
standing below. As the window opened, one man 
stepped out from among the others and stood alone 
in front of them. i Who are you ? What do you 
want here ? ’ Miss Macneil inquired, and the an- 
swer came distinct through the frosty silence. 

‘ We bring a dead man, madam ; and I am the 
Marquis of Glam.’ 

Miss Macneil withdrew her head. 4 There 
whispered Annie, in wild excitement, pinching 
Dinah’s arm. 4 Young ladies,’ said the school- 
mistress, ‘ retire to your own room, and put on 
some suitable clothing, and then you may come 
downstairs. I shall rouse the servants. ’ 

She called out to the people below requesting 
them to wait for a few moments, and the girls 
hurried into their own room. 4 Take out your 
curl-papers ! ’ called Annie. £ Be quick ! never 


OYER THE HILLS 


45 


mind anything else, put on anything. Come ! 
come. O Dinah, to think this is really us. ’ 

Dinah was imperturbable. ‘ If the poor people 
have been shipwrecked, they must be all wet ; 
they will want brandy and things. Take the 
blankets, Annie/ she said, as they left the 
room. 

The household was now thoroughly aroused. 
They heard the servants passing downstairs, and 
Miss Macneil, who had found time to assume a 
cap, called to them to follow her. 

4 Let us waken the little ones,’ whispered Annie. 
£ They ’re sound asleep no doubt, and it ’s a shame 
that they should miss it all. ’ 

She opened the door of the dormitory where the 
children slept. ‘ Waken ! waken, chickies ! ’ she 
called ; ‘ something very interesting is happening 
downstairs. ’ 

4 You shouldn’t bring the children out of bed 
on such a cold night,’ said Dinah. But Annie 
had no scruples, and in another minute the banis- 
ters were crowded with them, clustering like a 
swarm of white bees, hanging over as far as they 
dared, trampling with their little bare feet on one 
another’s toes, their hair screwed in curl-papers, 
their eyes wide with excitement, listening with all 
their ears to the marvellous tumult below, where 
men’s footsteps were echoing on the flagged pas- 
sages, and the deep rough voices of the sailors 


46 


OYE R THE HILLS 


mingled with the shrill exclamations of the startled 
maidservants. 

‘ Annie ! Annie, dear Annie ! do come soon 
and tell us something,’ they pleaded piteously, as 
the older girls went downstairs. 


CHAPTER VI 


Great confusion reigned below. The big kitchen 
was filled with the crew of the lifeboat and men 
belonging to the shipwrecked vessel. Distracted 
female servants went hurrying amongst them with 
hot liquors and offers of assistance. Miss Macneil 
stood in the lobby in conversation with the cap- 
tain of the boat, a huge man, in dripping oilskins. 
‘ Is he seriously hurt ? ’ she was asking as the girls 
came downstairs. 

‘ It ’s a blow from the broken mast,’ said the 
sailor. ‘ He ’ll be all right in a few minutes. 
Give him some brandy, Miss. ’ 

Miss Macneil turned in agitation to the girls. 

‘ Take this into the parlour — his lordship has 
fainted — I must attend to the others,’ she said. 

They were carrying the dead boy out from the 
kitchen now, and she hurried after them, leaving 
Dinah to administer the brandy. Annie shrank 
back into the shadow of the doorway, where she 
stood, shuddering, until the men had passed. 

‘ Come, Annie, into the parlour, ’ said Dinah. 

‘ He ’s not dead, is he ? ’ Annie inquired anx- 


48 


OVEE THE HILLS 


iously, hanging back as she saw the figure lying 
in the chair. 

‘ Ho, no, he spoke to us a minute ago,’ said 
Dinah. She went up and poured a few drops of 
brandy between the lips of the fainting man, and 
after a moment he drew a deep breath, and slowly 
opened his eyes. 

A strange sight indeed to have been blown by 
the night winds into the heart of an Establish- 
ment for the education of young ladies. In all 
the years that it had hung upon the wall the mir- 
ror in Miss Macneil’s parlour had never before re- 
flected such a sight. The Marquis was a man 
rather under middle height, with sallow skin, that 
in its present pallor looked like clay. The dark 
hair was flattened over his temples, and he wore 
no coat or waistcoat. His shirt had been torn 
half off one shoulder, and the hand that hung 
limply over the arm of the chair had been scratched 
and was bleeding a little. As he raised his head, 
he looked around him for a moment, then sank 
back, overcome with faintness again. Dinah ad- 
ministered some more brandy, and in a few min- 
utes he sat up in the chair. ‘ I have been dream- 
ing, ’ he said slowly. ‘ Where am I ? Ah — I re- 
member. ’ 

4 Your head is hurt,’ said Dinah. ‘You have 
been stunned a bit. Are you better now ? ’ 

4 Thank you, I shall be all right in a few min- 


OYER THE HILLS 


49 


utes, only a scratch,’ he said, as she examined his 
hand. 4 May 1 ask in whose house I have the 
honour to find myself ? ’ he asked presently, when 
Dinah was tying up his wrist. 

4 ’Tisn’t any one’s house, it’s a school,’ said 
Annie, who had been standing looking curiously 
at the stranger while Dinah assisted him. 

4 A school ! ’ 

4 A young ladies’ boarding-school,’ said Annie 
demurely. 

Lie smiled at her reply. 4 I fear we must have 
annoyed you all very much. May I go and see after 
those poor fellows ? — I can walk quite well now.’ 
lie rose, steadying himself against the arm of the 
chair. 4 If I could get a coat, ’ he remarked apolo- 
getically, pulling the torn shirt over his shoulder. 

4 1 ’m afraid we haven’t any here,’ Annie re- 
plied just as Miss Macneil, looking sadly agitated, 
appeared at the door. 

4 Ah,’ she exclaimed, 4 I am glad to see your 
lordship revived. I should have attended to you 
myself, had not Captain Anderson assured me that 
your faintness was a mere passing affair. Young 
ladies,’ she turned in distress to her pupils, 4 1 do 
not know what we are to do, there are twelve men 
in there ’ — she waved her hand towards the kitchen 
— 4 they are soaked to the skin, and Captain An- 
derson declares that we must provide them with— 
some dry garments. ’ 


50 


OYER THE HILLS 


She glanced in distress towards the open door, 
through which the girls caught a glimpse of the 
men crowding round the kitchen fire ; some of 
them had already begun to strip off their wet 
things. The captain of the lifeboat hustled about 
shouting to the servants to help him with those 
who were still half insensible. 

4 Some dry clothing , 5 Miss Macneil repeated 
tremulously. 

4 Our clothes ? 5 asked Dinah. 

4 Any clothes, ma’am, and the quicker the bet- 
ter, 5 roared the old sailor, coming up and catching 
the last words. 4 Gosh ! 5 he said, with an ex- 
pletive that barely escaped Miss Macneil’ s hear- 
ing, 4 wi 5 all thae lassies, there 5 s surely clothes 
enough in the hoose . 5 

4 But, my good man, this Establishment ’ 

began Miss Macneil. 

4 Can I be of any assistance ? 5 asked the Mar- 
quis. 

4 ’Tis not assistance, sir, it 5 s some dry clothes 
um wantin ’, 5 shouted the captain. 4 Blankets or 
petticoats — no matter, 5 s long 5 s they 5 re dry . 5 

4 We have cloaks and things, and lots of blankets 
upstairs , 5 said Dinah quickly. In a moment she 
had run to fetch them, and faint shrieks of delight 
followed her from the upper regions, where the 
little girls piled her arms with cloaks and clothing 
— some of it of the most unsuitable texture and 


OYER THE HILLS 


51 


dimensions. She returned immediately, and 
threw her bundle on the kitchen table. 

4 Dinah ! come here ! ’ called Annie, as she re- 
turned. The drowned man had been carried into 
the bedroom on the same floor : a state apart- 
ment, reserved for occasions when the parent of 
some pupil from a distance came to spend the 
night. 4 We can do nothing more,’ Miss Macneil 
was saying to the Marquis ; 4 we have tried every- 
thing.’ The two girls entered unobserved, and 
stood for a moment fascinated by this, which was 
to both of them their first sight of death. The 
room was furnished with a great deal of crinkly 
white muslin and netted frills. There, on the bed, 
lay the drowned lad, still in his big sea-boots. 
The dreadful dead face stared up from amongst 
the netted frills of the coverlet with wide open 
eyes. One of the coarse, stiffened hands still 
grasped desperately at the air with crooked 
fingers : water dripped from the body, and made 
a’ pool on the floor, and a long trail of seaweed 
that must have been carried in along with it, lay 
on the carpet — it squelched and sliddered under 
their feet as they came in. Annie stood stockstill 
for an instant, gazing at the bed, drawing her 
breath shudderingly between her teeth, then she 
turned and glided away, but Dinah went up and 
stood steadily looking down at the dead boy. 

4 He is quite dead, poor fellow ! Ho thing more 


52 


OVER THE IIILLS 


can be done, ’ said Lord Glarn. lie gently closed 
the eyes, and motioned to Dinah to cover the 
face. ‘ It is a sad sight,’ he said, for Miss Mac- 
neil was crying. ‘ Do not pain yourself more, 
madam. I shall send some of the men in here to 
do all that is necessary in a short time.’ Miss 
Macneil and he then went into the kitchen to 
speak to the men, and Dinah, softly closing the 
door, returned to the parlour to find Annie. 

6 Come , 5 she said, ‘ we must go back to bed 
now, it is nearly morning. Miss Macneil says we 
are to go upstairs.’ 

Annie demurred, saying she could not go to 
sleep again, but she followed Dinah after all. 

‘ Fancy that being Lord Glarn ! ’ said Annie 
when they reached their own room. ‘ He ’s ugly 
for a marquis, but he speaks just like one, I think. 
We shan’t be allowed to see him again, I believe. 
Miss Macneil would think it improper. ’ 

It was nearly three o’clock in the morning by 
this time, and Dinah told her to be quiet and go 
to sleep. Annie was silent for a little while, and 
Dinah thought that she had begun to get sleepy, 
when she got out of bed and crossed the room, and 
came and sat down beside Dinah’s bed, shivering. 

‘ I can’t sleep,’ she said, 4 . . . that thing down- 
stairs ! ’ 

‘ Do you mean that poor dead boy ? ’ asked 
Dinah. 


OYER THE HILLS 


53 


‘ Yes, yes ! it was so horrible. To think of its 
being down there just below us — now. Oh ! ’ 

Dinah stretched out a warm, firm hand, and 
patted her. ‘ Don’t, Annie ! Why should you 
mind that ? ’ 

‘ It ’s dreadful,’ said Annie in a shuddering 
whisper. ( I don’t think you know what it is to 
be afraid, Dinah. Sometimes I feel so horrible ; 
seeing that has made it all come over me to-night. 
Oh ! don’t go to sleep and leave me alone with it.’ 

‘ With what, Annie ? I don’t understand you. 
See,’ she said, £ go back to bed, and I ’ll come and 
sit beside you till you fall asleep. ’ 

She tucked Annie up in bed, and sat holding 
her hand, hoping that she would fall asleep. Then 
her voice came sliudderingly again : ‘ It ’s Some- 
thing behind me, Dinah ! — always — when I stop 
to think— Something dreadful that will come out 
of the dark and drag me down with it some day, 
I know.’ 

Dinah was aware that the merry creature some- 
times took sudden fits of melancholy, but this was 
worse than she had imagined. However, nothing 
has a more wholesome influence upon an excited 
imagination than the presence of some one who 
fails to take in the nature of the feeling. Dinah 
was not sensitive to impressions. ‘ Hush, child, 
go to sleep, and don’t talk nonsense,’ she said. 

c It ’s — my mother, I think,’ went on Annie in 


54 


OYEE TIIE IIILLS 


the same tone. 4 Do yon know about my mother, 
Dinah ? ’ 

4 I have heard Miss Macneil speak of her, 5 Dinah 
answered evasively. She dreaded lest Annie 
should excite herself further. 

4 She was a great lady, ’ went on Annie in the 
dark. 4 And my father, you know, Dinah, was 
once,’ she sank her voice so that Dinah could 
scarcely hear, ‘a priest — like uncle. Oh,’ she 
said, 4 I remember things — when I was a very 
little girl — in Canada. ’ She was silent, shivering, 
then she raised herself and pulled away her hand 
from Dinah’s. 4 She lives in the dark jplaces ,’ she 
said, 4 and some day she will come for me : I too 
will do something dreadful , and then she will take 
me , and we will go away together. ’ 

Dinah stood up ; she was tall and strong com- 
pared to Annie. She put her arms about her, and 
turned her on the pillow as if she had been a child. 

4 There,’ she said, in her quiet, decided voice, 
4 turn round and go to sleep, and do not talk like 
that. It is wrong, Annie.’ 

4 If you are there, Dinah, will you hold me 
back ? ’ 

4 Yes,’ said Dinah, in a very placid tone, 4 of 
course I will.’ Her voice seemed to reassure 
Annie. 4 1 almost think that I could go to sleep, ’ 
she murmured ; then, with a titter of laughter, 

4 Oh ! the Marquis of Glarn ! Isn’t it funny, 


OVER THE HILLS 55 

Dinah ? So like Puss in Boots and the Marquis 
of Carabas. And to think of all those men in the 
kitchen in our cloaks and flannel petticoats ! I 
think it was all a dream. ’ She had dropped off to 
sleep almost before the words were out of her 
mouth. 


CHAPTER VII 


Miss Macneil, having provided as well as she could 
for the comfort of her unexpected guests, had re- 
tired for a few hours of repose, but she awoke to 
find herself oh the horns of a dilemma. 

c Where is the Marquis to breakfast, ma’am ? ’ 
were the first words that greeted her in the morn- 
ing. The shutters in her chamber had not yet 
been opened. For a moment she hesitated, at a 
loss for a reply. 4 Hand me my front,’ she said — 
she felt it was not a problem to be faced in her 
night-cap. Then, having given the maid leave to 
open the shutters, after a moment’s reflection, she 
gave her orders with dignity. 

4 The two young ladies, Maggie, will breakfast 
this morning along with the junior pupils in the 
schoolroom’ (Dinah and Annie generally had 
breakfast along with her) ; 4 the Marquis in the 
green parlour with me. His lordship will prob- 
ably be a small eater,’ she said. (In those days a 
small appetite was considered a sure indication of 
gentility.) 4 But,’ she added, 4 you may send up 
a turkey’s egg.’ 


OYER THE HILLS 


57 


The good lady, having to adjust her bandeaux 
for the eyes of a marquis, was a few minutes late. 
As she went downstairs she reiterated her com- 
mand, 4 The young ladies breakfast in the school- 
room,’ and sailed towards the door of the green 
parlour. It stood open. She paused a moment 
in astonishment. Breakfast was on the table ; the 
tea urn bubbled invitingly ; everything, as her 
first anxious glance had assured her, was all right ; 
but, on the hearthrug, stood the Marquis, and 4 Ho 
it again,’ he was saying. 4 Look, is that right ? ’ 
He held up his hands, round which Miss Annie 
Fraser was engaged in twisting a piece of string 
into those convolutions that make the artless game 
known as £ cat’s cradle.’ 

4 Ho, no, this is the way. How big your thumbs 
are ! ’ said the girl, standing almost on tiptoe to 
pull the string over them. They appeared to be 
already on terms of the most friendly — to Miss 
Macneil’s mind, of the most unsuitable — intimacy ; 
and the schoolmistress could scarcely repress her 
indignation and surprise sufficiently to greet her 
noble guest with suitable courtesy. 

He appeared to have suffered but little from the 
experiences of the night before : assured her that 
he had slept well on the sofa allotted to him ; and 
though he still wore on his wrist the bandage that 
Dinah had wrapped about it, he declared that the 
wound was a mere scratch. He had borrowed a 


58 


OVEE THE HILLS 


sailor’s coat from some one, as the men had got 
their clothes dry by this time. Miss Macneil hav- 
ing finished her stately inquiries concerning his 
health, then turned to Annie. 

4 Miss Fraser,’ she said, in a tone of severe dis- 
pleasure, 4 I sent you a message desiring that this 
morning, you and Miss Jerningham should break- 
fast in the schoolroom.’ 

4 Did you, ma’am ? ’ said Annie. 4 Indeed, I 
never received it. Shall I go to the schoolroom 
now ? ’ she asked meekly, dropping her eyes. 

4 Pray do not alter your usual arrangements on 
my account, ’ Lord Glarn interposed. 4 Allow me 
to breakfast in the schoolroom — with the men — 
I ’ll take breakfast anywhere.’ 

4 There is no occasion,’ said Miss Macneil, with 
dignity. 4 Be seated, Miss Fraser. Will you 
have some tea, my lord ? ’ she asked, in her most 
genteel tones. 

4 Will you have an egg, my lord ? ’ asked Annie, 
with even greater dignity, in the same tone. Miss 
Macneil had frequently found fault with her hope- 
less lack of reverence for any one ; laying it down, 
with all Annie’s other faults, to the sad fact of 
her being a Catholic. It was a period when per- 
sons of high rank were considered— nominally at 
least — to be of much more importance than is, out- 
wardly, the case at present. Perhaps society was 
none the worse for the salaams accorded to nobility. 


OYER THE HILLS 


59 


‘Miss Fraser and I find ourselves quite old ac- 
quaintances,’ said Lord Glarn ; 4 at least, by 
name.’ He glanced at Miss Macneil before he 
added, 4 We have some mutual connections, I un- 
derstand. ’ Miss Macneil was surprised by his ac- 
knowledgment of Annie’s left-handed connection 
with his family. She wondered how he had found 
it out. 4 We have an acquaintance in common 
too,’ he went on — 4 young Campbell of Glarn. I 
know him well. Miss Fraser tells me that the 
other young lady whom I saw here last night is a 
relative of his stepmother’s.’ 

4 Miss Jerningham, I presume, did receive my 
message,’ remarked Miss Macneil to Annie. 

4 Evidently, ma’am,’ she replied; 4 she must 
have gone to the schoolroom. ’ 

The Marquis was now looking pensively into the 
shell of his first turkey’s egg. 

4 This salt air gives one quite an appetite, ’ he 
remarked. 

4 ’Tis most bracing,’ said Miss Macneil ; 4 I only 
wish that our beloved Sovereign could have the 
benefit of those breezes. She has nearly recov- 
ered from her recent indisposition, I understand.’ 

4 It makes one thirsty too,’ he said, finishing his 
second cup of tea. 

4 There is much domestic happiness at Windsor, 
I am informed,’ continued the lady. 4 Does your 
lordship find the turkey’s egg too large— some 


60 


OYER THE HILLS 


people do. I shall order some hens’ eggs to be 
brought in.’ 

‘ Oh, thank you, perhaps another turkey’s egg,’ 
her guest responded with alacrity. Miss Macneil 
was astonished. Ho young lady in her Establish- 
ment had ever been offered, or would, under her 
eye, have dared to accept of a second helping of 
any viand. 

£ I fear there may be no more in the house,’ she 
said ; ‘ we have had such an unexpected call upon 
our larder this morning ; but perhaps you would 
partake of a very thin slice of the cold beef. The 
Prince Consort, I am told, when in the country, 
relishes quite simple fare.’ 

Annie very demurely helped him to a shaving 
of beef ; then, lifting her eyelids with a flicker, 
she said, ‘ Perhaps this is not thin enough ; will 
you cut it for yourself ? ’ 

When the hungry young man had got the cold 
beef by his own plate, he was too well employed 
to maintain the conversation at the level expected 
of him. In the morning light, now that he had 
lost his deadly pallor, he looked considerably 
younger than he had appeared the night before. 

He had a strong, thoughtful face. There was 
something about the shape of the head and model- 
ling of the features slightly suggestive of a cast 
from the antique, but the classic outline here and 
there was blurred. The most remarkable thing 


OYER THE HILLS 


61 


about the face was the look, almost like that on 
the face of the dead — not as if expression had 
never been there, but as if it had been all with- 
drawn, leaving a mere mask behind it. 

When he smiled, however, the lines of the face 
relaxed, and became almost genial. He evidently 
found his gravity a little tried by Miss Macneil’s 
conversation, and attempted presently to divert 
the current by inquiring if she knew if Mr. Jer- 
ningham was at home at present. 

‘ I was coming to Ubster to see him, ’ he said, 
i on business. I must go over there this morning. 
Is Miss Jerningham an only child ? ’ 

‘ An only daughter, alas ! ’ said Miss Macneil, 
adding (these were the palmy days of the early 
Victorian era), ‘ Our Queen has quite a little circle 
about her now. ’ 

6 Ah, yes ! ’ 

‘ Does the Marchioness appear much at Court ? ’ 
she inquired. 

‘ Ho — o,’ he said deliberately ; ‘ she is a good 
deal engaged at home. ’ 

‘ I forget if you have any family, my lord ? ’ 
pursued Miss Macneil kindly, resolving to study 
the Peerage more carefully in future, and impress 
upon her young ladies the advantages of a careful 
acquaintance with family details. 

‘ No, madam, unfortunately, I Aave no children.’ 
The heartfelt, sympathetic sigh with which the 


62 


OYER THE I1ILLS 


lady greeted this announcement was too much for 
Annie’s composure. 

‘ Will you excuse me, ma’am ? ’ she said, ris- 
ing ; ‘ I think the English class is about to begin. 
I must go to the schoolroom. ’ 

She ran in and caught Dinah round the waist. 
‘ Dinah Jerningham,’ she called out, laughing, 
‘ go and curl your hair ! You are to drive the 
Marquis over to Ubster. Isn’t the carriage com- 
ing for you this morning ? He is going to see Mr. 
Jerningham on business. There is much domestic 
happiness at Windsor, he assures us, but he has no 
family himself. He has eaten a turkey’s egg, and 
a whole round of cold beef for breakfast, and he 
looks now as if he could eat Miss Macneil. I 
think he ’s a wolf in disguise. I think it ’s a fairy 
tale. I told you so last night. Those are not 
real sailors in the kitchen ; they are kelpies or 
something, and I think they will entice us down 
to the shore and drown us all ! ’ As she spoke, 
she had pulled Dinah along the passage that led 
past the door of the room where the dead boy had 
been laid the night before : she had for the mo- 
ment forgotten all about it. 

‘ Hush ! hush ! ’ said Dinah, ‘ do not make a 
noise here, Annie. ’ 

Annie’ s face changed in an instant ; her laugh- 
ter died away, and her eyes grew dark and wide. 
She caught Dinah’s hand and hurried her past the 


OVER THE HILLS 


63 


door ; then they stood together and looked out 
from the hall window in silence. Below upon the 
rocks, there lay the broken ship, black and shape- 
less now : the waves came and went about it, like 
cruel foaming lips licking their dead prey. Annie 
shuddered, and would not look again. 


CHAPTER VIII 


Me. Jeeningham’s carriage came as usual that 
morning to take Dinah home. Annie Fraser had 
been asked to come along with her that Saturday ; 
and although Miss Macneil scarcely thought that 
it was suitable, she could find no good reason why 
the Marquis should not drive to Ubster along with 
them ; on such a day of wind and rain it was but 
natural that the choice should be offered to him. 
Dinah was already seated, and Lord Glarn stood 
by the door when Annie came running down. 
She wore a fur- lined sacque, for the day was bit- 
terly cold ; her bonnet was lined with the palest 
blue, that, faint as it was, was yet bluer than her 
eyes. She dressed with no care, and the strings 
were knotted awry, and as she held out her hand 
to be helped into the carriage, a hole in her glove 
was visible. When they had once started she 
threw herself back in her seat with a burst of de- 
lighted laughter ; she did not give any reason for 
her mirth, but neither of her auditors seemed to 
require an explanation. The Marquis sat looking 
at her, as he had done in the morning, and Dinah 


OYER THE HILLS 


65 


took everything or anything that Annie might do 
as a matter of course. 

When they reached the house in Ubster, Dinah 
conducted Lord Glarn to her father’s office, and 
then took Annie upstairs to see her mother. 

‘Money,’ was Mr. Jerningham’s inward excla- 
mation when his visitor was announced, but he 
greeted him cordially enough. If Lord Glarn’s 
business was not money, it was the next thing to 
it — he had come to speak about the sale of some 
timber of value on the estate. He seldom lived 
in that part of the country, and cared little about 
the look of the place as long as he was not there. 

Before he left he said a few words to Mr. Jer- 
ningham about Glarn, adding something about the 
marriage of Jane Anne to Mr. Campbell. Mr. 
Jerningham frowned. 

‘ A poor man and a poor place, I understand,’ 
he said ; 4 1 don’t know what possessed the woman 
to do it. ’ 

The Marquis smiled. 4 Glam is Naboth’s vine- 
yard to me,’ he said. 4 It ’s nothing but an old 
rattletrap of a house and two fields, but I take my 
title from it, and my father and my grandfather 
before him tried to buy it back in vain. The 
Campbells won’t give it up. This man is as poor 
as a rat. He wanted the son to be a minister too, 
I believe, but he won’t do that.’ 

4 Oh, he does nothing ? ’ 


66 


OYER THE HILLS 


fi Well, they say he ’ll study law, and he went 
for a year to Aberdeen, I believe, but all he does 
now is to hang about the place and shoot rabbits.’ 
He paused, looking at Jerningham, and added, 
4 You should take him into your office, Mr. Jer- 
ningham ; give the lad a chance. ’ 

‘ Oh, I can’t afford to be generous,’ said the 
rich man crossly, as his visitor departed. 

But the advice of the great (unlike that of the 
wise) is seldom given in vain, and in the course of 
a few days Jerningham addressed a letter to Jane 
Anne. In this epistle he tactfully stated that in 
his opinion she had done an exceedingly foolish 
thing in going to bury herself alive at Glarn ; he 
thought that, on the whole, she would not find 
married hfe as easy as she had anticipated ; and 
finally, he wound up with an offer to take her 
stepson into his office on trial for a short t im e. 
He might live with them and he would ask no pre- 
mium at first. 

‘ And that’s a better chance, tell him, than 
your grandfather ever had, and he died worth half 
a million, ’ he added, in conclusion. 

This offer was received by Lewis with laughter. 
He saw no attractions in Mr. Jerningham’s office, 
nor in the prospect of dying worth half a million, 
and even muttered something contemptuous about 
‘trade.’ Jane Anne put away the letter in in- 
ward perturbation, for she pictured her uncle’s 


OYER THE HILLS 


67 


face if she wrote a refusal. Her timid nature was 
always falling between two stools, and she could 
not have any more words with Lewis about the 
matter. She had begun to lean on this young 
man, just as an ivy plant, or (that being too strong 
a vegetable to compare with Jane Anne) as a pea- 
shoot, which you may see growing to a certain 
height without support, gropes about with its ten- 
drils, until at last it finds a stick to lean on ; so 
with all her weak nature she turned and clung to 
the young strong one beside her. In a week Lewis 
and she were friends ; in a month he used to sit 
by her ; and she was horrified, and yet laughed, 
in spite of herself, at the things he said, gently 
correcting him at times for what she considered 
his profane expressions. He was an utterly heed- 
less creature about trifles. He put a can of worms 
on her work-table, took her silks to tie his fishing- 
lines, left dogs on the sofa, and pipes in the draw- 
ing-room, committed daily thousands of small 
errors most trying to her prim ideas. But none 
of these things weighed with her against the sense 
of support and security she felt in his presence. 
His instant decisions, his low, frank voice, and the 
straight way he looked at one as he spoke, even 
the recklessness that would have made a more 
sensible woman grave, used to fill her heart with 
a kind of elation. Was it not brave to see any 
one who as yet had never known the meaning of 


68 


OVEE THE HILLS 


fear or hesitation ! She liked to watch him, and 
in her own mind would wonder if there was any 
young man in existence to compare with him. 
Poor lady, her first timid efforts at ‘ work ’ in her 
own household met with scant success. When 
she, after much hesitation, managed to address a 
few evangelistic words to ‘ the lass,’ they were 
received in stolid silence ; then, after a minute, 
the girl broke into a sudden giggle, and fled from 
the room. A second attempt, asking Phemie if 
she ‘ had found the truth, ’ was no better. The 
old woman looked at her with a twinkling eye. 

‘ That I have, ’ she answered, ‘ long before you 
was born, ’ and she wiped a greasy knife upon her 
apron, while her mistress stood before her crushed 
and awkward. 

Jane Anne was afraid, as I have said, to reply 
to Mr. Jerningham’s letter, and afraid to speak 
more about the matter to her stepson, so she waited 
on for a few weeks in the hope that time might 
help her. It did. The Marquis arrived at Glarn, 
to occupy a lodge which was only a few miles 
away ; and one day, as he was riding through the 
wood, he met Lewis Campbell. 

It was a brilliant morning towards the end of 
May ; but although the sky above was without a 
cloud, inside the pinewoods the light was very 
dim. Lord Glarn stopped his horse, standing 
where the sun struck down on the soft roadway. 


OYER THE HILLS 


69 


Behind, and on either side, the ghostly procession 
of the thin pine stems disappeared in the distance. 
The wood was very still. ‘ How are you, Camp- 
bell ? ’ he said. ‘ Back at home again ? ’ 

‘Yes,’ said Lewis, coming and standing by his 
bridle, looking up at him frankly, ‘ I couldn’t 
stand the law — six months of it were enough for 
me.’ 

The older man studied his face for a moment 
before he asked, dryly, ‘ You ’re going to do noth- 
ing, then ? ’ 

‘ If my father won’t allow me to do what I like, 
I ’m not going to ’ 

c To do what he likes, eh ? ’ said Glarn, smiling. 
‘ You want to be a soldier, I suppose ? ’ 

‘ Well, yes ; it ’s the only thing I ’m fit for,’ 
said Lewis. ‘They’ll never make a lawyer of 
me — not if they brayed me in a mortar. Old 
Jerningham, my stepmother’s uncle, wrote and 
offered to take me into his office, but catch me ! ’ 
‘ I only wish I had the chance, ’ said the Mar- 
quis. 

Lewis stared. ‘ Chance of what, sir ? ’ 

‘ Of making my own life,’ he answered, and his 
face was even more than usually impassive as he 
spoke, leaning over his saddle-bow, and laying his 
fingers for an instant on Lewis’s shoulder. c If I 
were your age, and my own master, poor — and — 
free, I should make life something worth living, 


70 


OYER THE HILLS 


I can tell yon. Look here, Campbell, if you take 
a bright blade, and fling it in the damp grass 
there, and leave it unused, how long do you sup- 
pose it will have any value ? Man ! ’ he said sud- 
denly, a quiver passing over his cold face, ‘ for all 
you’re worth, get out of this and work — break 
stones — do any mortal thing, if you wouldn’t lose 
your own soul. ’ 

He withdrew his fingers from the young man’s 
sleeve, and gathered up the reins. ‘ And that ’s 
disinterested advice,’ he said in parting ; £ you ’ll 
go and make your fortune, and my last chance of 
buying Glarn will be gone. ’ 

Late that evening Lewis asked Jane Anne if she 
had replied to her uncle’s letter. When she an- 
swered no, he told her that he would write to Mr. 
Jerningham and accept his offer. 

The Marquis rode slowly back the six long miles 
that lay between the lodge and Glarn. Trees, 
trees, trees, on either side, all slim and straight 
and tall, vanishing into the shadows like proces- 
sions of ghostly soldiers. The horse’s feet made 
no sound on the spongy road. Twice the man 
who was riding sighed, slow despairing sighs, then 
he struck his horse suddenly, and rode out of the 
shadow of the wood with a face impassive as a 
stone. 


CHAPTER IX 


The two years which followed, though they were 
unmarked by any striking events, formed, for 
some of the people in this narrative, that impor- 
tant but uninteresting time of transition between 
the character, which is merely the outcome of 
early circumstance, and that more distinct char- 
acter which appears when we begin to choose our 
own ways. Dinah Jerningham had been finished 
as far as Miss Macneil’s Establishment could finish 
her ; and the lady reluctantly, but candidly, had 
advised Mr. Jerningham to send her to school in 
London for a year. 4 With her prospects,’ she 
said, 4 1 feel that perhaps a higher degree of polish 
than it would be possible for her to acquire in this 
quiet corner would be advisable. ’ 

Dinah accordingly had gone to a school in Ken- 
sington, a highly superior school, for it was whis- 
pered amongst her former companions that in this 
Establishment the young ladies wore white kid 
gloves all day — a fresh pair every second morning. 
Annie Fraser had remained at Miss Maeneil’s for 
a few months after Dinah left, and then she too 


72 


OYER THE HILLS 


had gone to finish her education at a convent 
school in Brussels. Miss Macneil felt this to be a 
sore blow. She had hoped that her training had 
been slowly drawing Annie away from her early 
errors, but now she feared that all would be un- 
done. 

Dinah came home, a great, tall girl, still with 
the same solemn eyes and rather sallow skin. 
Have you observed how sometimes a girl returns 
from school, when she has only been away for a 
year or so, just as you may have seen a man come 
back to his native country after half a lifetime of 
exile : she looks about her as if all the familiar 
things were strange, as if the very people she met 
(in whose lives perhaps her short absence has 
scarcely been observed at all) were altogether 
different. Time is a poor measure for these 
changes. When childish things are put away and 
the soul begins to be conscious of itself, it stands 
and looks around it amazed, and at once begins to 
study every one from a new standpoint. 

The unfortunate thing is that it is generally with 
those nearest that the inspection begins. 

On the day of her arrival, as Dinah drove along 
the streets of Ubster, she kept looking out eagerly 
for the well-known places, and they all took on a 
new appearance to her eyes. Why had she never 
noticed how grey the houses were — how clean and 
wide and cold the streets ! Now the carriage 


OYER THE HILLS 


73 


rattled over the cobble-stones in the market-place, 
where the big fish were laid out on the ground. 
W as it not a quaint custom ? and why had all the 
people in the streets such fresh and rosy faces ? 
IIow small the church looked ! How the air 
smelt of the sea ! How she saw a crowd of masts 
and the broad flags at the edge of the harbour. . . . 
Surely there were more ships than formerly, and 
their own house stood much closer to the quay 
than she had remembered. 

She felt very strange as she crossed the hall and 
went through the familiar rooms. Mrs. Jerning- 
ham met her then for the first time, and Dinah 
saw her mother from the new standpoint. Her 
absent exclamation of, 4 Oh, Dinah, have you 
come already ? I wasn’t expecting you for half 
an hour,’ sunk into the girl’s heart. 

4 May I go down and see papa ? ’ said Dinah in 
a few minutes : she went down to the door of the 
office, not formulating the thought distinctly, but 
feeling that she must see her father too in this new 
light. 

Mr. Jerningham looked up from his writing as 
she came in. 4 Well, Dinah, is this you?’ he 
said. 4 What a big girl you are now ! Come 
home at last, have you ? I ’ve spent a pretty 
penny on you this last year or two — hope you ’ve 
something to show for it, eh ? Be turning all the 
young fellows’ heads, I suppose. We’ve got 


74 


OYER THE HILLS 


Campbell here now— Jane Anne’s stepson, you 
know — must be careful — penniless lad. I ’ll have 
nothing of that sort with him, remember. Going 
away ? Well, well, I ’m very busy.’ 

He turned again to his desk, and Dinah went 
slowly upstairs. She sat down in the drawing- 
room (it was growing dusk now), and wished she 
were back at school. They would just be going 
down to tea now from the big classroom. Then 
she thought of her former school life at Miss Mac- 
neil’s, and wondered if she should like those girls 
now. Some of them lived in Ubster, and she won- 
dered if they too had grown up and changed as 
she had done. 

‘Jane Anne’s stepson.’ At thought of her 
cousin a hundred memories of childhood came 
back to the girl ; and she realised that if Jane 
Anne had been here to welcome her, the house 
would not have felt so lonely and so strange. 
Jane Anne with a stepson ! How strange to 
think of it ! Dinah began to wonder what he 
was like, and at that very moment, as she sat in 
the growing dusk, the subject of her thoughts, 
Lewis Campbell, came into the room. Dinah 
knew at once who it was, although this was the 
first time that they had met. 

‘ I am Dinah Jerningham,’ she said, looking at 
him in her large solemn way, speaking with a 
mixture of gravity and frankness that gave her 


OVER THE HILLS 


75 


manner a dignity singular in so young a woman. 
Standing beside him, she was nearly as tall as he. 

Lewis looked into her honest eyes as she shook 
hands with him ; and never afterwards, I think, 
did he quite forget the sense of assurance, the feel- 
ing of home coming that he felt at that first mo- 
ment of their meeting. 4 You have just arrived, 
Miss Jerningham ? Why, I declare, I am more 
at home in the house than you are,’ he said. 

£ Everything seems so different,’ said Dinah. 
Then she turned to him abruptly, 4 Will you tell 
me about Jane Anne ? ’ she asked ; 4 1 had two 
or three letters from her when I was away. She 
says she misses you very much.’ 

Lewis laughed. 4 We ’re great friends now. 
She allows me to say anything I like to her. ’ He 
watched Dinah curiously as he spoke. She was 
very unlike the other girls of his acquaintance. 
He wondered how she and Annie Fraser would 
get on. Since coming to Ubster he had become 
perfectly domesticated in the household. Dinah 
being away, as there was no other young person in 
the house, Mrs. Jerningham appeared to take it for 
granted that Lewis should fill her place. It was 
from no great kindness, as perhaps Lewis knew, 
but simply from a sort of stupidity that couldn’t 
have imagined anything else. All women liked 
him, trusted him, and were apt to depend too 
much upon him ; for as yet his heedless, careless 


76 


OVEK THE IIILLS 


disposition was nothing much to lean on. Jer- 
ningham got on with him well enough, simply be- 
cause no cause of dispute had happened to rise be- 
tween them. He gave him no money, and Lewis 
asked for none ; and that, after all, was the worst 
thing (in Mr. Jerningham’s opinion) that a young 
man could do. He assured himself, after a few 
days, that there was going to be no fear of a flirta- 
tion between Lewis and Dinah — that would have 
been a matter requiring instant suppression — but 
having satisfied himself upon that point, he left 
them very much to themselves. In the course of 
a month or two there sprang up between the two 
young people a sort of comradeship, as much like 
that of brother and sister as such a relation could 
be. On Lewis’s side, at any rate, it was quite 
dispassionate. He stood a little in awe of the 
girl ; most young men did ; her cold, rather ab- 
rupt manner, with its direct simplicity, made them 
afraid of her. Lewis, whose acquaintance with 
women had hitherto been very limited, found in 
Dinah something which was new to him. 

He had the idea that all women were weak, 
clinging things, full of shif tings and turnings and 
trying to the temper of man. Here was one who 
always meant what she said ; who executed every- 
thing that she had to do with beautiful preci- 
sion ; to whom Duty, and Law, and Order were 
more than words. Dimly he began to com- 


OVEK TIIE HILLS 


77 


prehend this, and to adjust himself to meet her 
thoughts. 

One day when they had been out somewhere 
together, and were walking back to Ubster, they 
passed the tower of the lighthouse ; it rose daz- 
zlingly white in the sun, its stones joined and knit- 
ted together, stronger than the solid rock on which 
it stood. Lewis looked up at it, and then he 
looked at the girl beside him. By nightfall, before 
the dangerous twilight had dimmed the sea, the 
great lights of the tower (more punctual than the 
stars) would be kindled to shine unflagging till 
the dawn. 

He looked at it and then at her again. 6 That 
is like you, Dinah,’ he said suddenly. 

Dinah saw no force in the comparison. ‘ It is 
nearly four o’clock,’ she said ; ‘ I promised mother 
that we should be home by four,’ and she walked 
on, quite unconscious of what he had meant to 
imply. 

With all this respect and admiration for her 
character, Lewis never thought of falling in love 
with Miss Jerningham. Much more likely that 
he would have fallen in love with any of the other 
girls he met, whose faces attracted him, and of 
whose natures he knew nothing at all. For such 
is the strange fact— that first love will take for its 
foundation any mortal thing except respect. Van- 
ity, folly, a sweet voice, a pretty shape— for any 


?8 


OYER THE HILLS 


of a thousand trifles the young are eager to barter 
away their whole store of affection. Therefore 
all Dinah’s good qualities only formed a barrier 
against anything like a love affair between them 
that winter. 

In summer Lewis went back to Glarn. 


CHAPTER X 


Jane Anne was charmed to have her stepson at 
home again. The year of absence had seemed 
very long to her ; the house when he was gone 
had been so dark and quiet. She had not energy 
of character sufficient to carve out any new pur- 
suits for herself, and in consequence she was often, 
to put it plainly, sadly dull. Every Sunday she 
used to attend her husband’s ministrations in the 
tiny, empty old church. Mr. Campbell did not 
care how many auditors he had, so long as he had 
one on whom he could fix his eye and to whom he 
could address his long discourse. Above every- 
thing he loved the sound of his own voice, and 
that was heard quite as well, if not better, when 
the church was empty ; so, during the long months 
of winter, Jane Anne sat every Sunday in the 
square uncushioned pew that faced the puJpit, and 
listened, or appeared to listen, with humble rever- 
ence. She had been rather inclined before her 
marriage to worship men (in the abstract), and 
especially ministers ; but I think that those long 
mornings in the church at Glarn, when a damp 


80 


OVEE THE HILLS 


coldness seemed to creep to her very heart from 
the musty wooden floor : when all that she could 
see between the small diamond panes of the win- 
dow was the great old larch tree that flung its 
wind-tortured branches out over the headstones 
which marked the old graves, were more than 
sufficient to cure her of that weakness. 

She had tried ‘to interest herself in her hus- 
band’s pursuits,’ for she had all the most conven- 
tional and the best intentions ; but he soon discov- 
ered that she ‘had no head for genealogy,’ and 
would not even allow her to verify a date for him. 

Her household occupations were no more satis- 
factory. She was afraid of Phemie, and her timid 
reproofs were utterly and silently scorned by ‘ the 
lass.’ The house, if anything, became more un- 
comfortable than before. 

Lewis arrived at home in the beginning of 
August, when the reluctant summer had come at 
last even to those solitary places, flushing the hills 
into their brief bloom. The moors were red, and 
smelt like honey, and the little crofts behind the 
lonely farms grew yellow— a pinkish yellow, that 
told of the damp soil on which the thin crop was 
raised. Jane Anne used to take her sewing out of 
doors — she had great ideas upon the employment 
of time, and was seldom without some piece of 
futile stitching in her hands. She worked a little 
for a foreign missionary society, putting fonder 


OYER THE HILLS 


81 


prayers for the salvation of the heathen into her 
work than went with many a larger donation. 
‘ It was difficult to know exactly what would be 
of use,’ she said, in the note that she sent along 
with the parcel when she dispatched it — at a cost 
of carriage more than double the value of its con- 
tents. 

The day before Lewis arrived she had done her 
best to brighten up the house for him, but with 
small success. He thought her looking very hag- 
gard and dull when he saw her first. ‘We’ll 
have Dinah Jerningham here to cheer you up,’ he 
said ; ‘ I know she would like to come. She said 
so.’ 

‘ Dinah is a handsome girl now, I suppose,’ Jane 
Anne remarked. 

‘Ho,’ said Lewis, laughing at her tone, ‘not 
very. She ’s big and tall, nearly as tall as I am.’ 
He considered for a moment. ‘ Her hands are 
very white,’ he said, glancing down at his own 
brown ones. 

‘ Does she like you, Lewis ? ’ said his step- 
mother softly. 

‘ Me ? Oh, well enough. I suppose so. We 
saw so much of one another. ’ 

‘Do you — you did not— I mean,’ said Jane 
Anne, who could seldom be explicit. 

‘ Do I — I did not — no, I did not? he answered 
gaily. ‘ Don’t you know, mammy, that Miss 


82 


OYER THE IIILLS 


Jerningham is an heiress ; every man in the county 
knows that, I can tell you. She is not for “ the 
likes o’ me,” and I don’t want her either. You 
should see the way that Mr. Jerningham looks at 
every young fellow that comes into the house.’ 

4 1 think I know,’ said Jane Anne, ‘ but Dinah 
is not worldly, I am sure.’ She changed the sub- 
ject rather obviously by saying in a minute, 
* Annie Fraser has come home, Lewis. ’ 

‘ Has she ? When ? ’ 

‘ Oh, last night. Phemie told me. She said 
she met the housekeeper. ’ 

Lewis jumped up, he had been sitting on the 
grass beside his stepmother’s chair. He looked at 
his watch. ‘ I shall be back by seven, ’ he said ; 
‘I ’m going over to Edderty.’ He walked away 
without more ado, and Jane Anne watched until 
he was out of sight. She sighed rather anxiously, 
for Annie Fraser was no favourite of hers. 

When he entered the bare little sitting-room 
that he used to know so well, Lewis felt his heart 
beating faster than usual. He did not try to ex- 
plain to himself why, or what it was that was ex- 
citing him, or what he expected to see. He stood 
waiting, examining the chromo-lithograph of the 
Holy Father that hung on the whitewashed wall, 
noticing the exceeding poverty and shabbiness of 
the few bits of furniture. The chair where the 
old man generally sat had a torn cover on it ; the 


OYEB TIIE HILLS 


33 


carpet was absolutely threadbare ; but there was 
a little smart satin slipper that might have done 
credit to Cinderella lying on the floor at his feet. 
Lewis picked it up : he was regarding it critically, 
balancing it on the palm of his hand, when the 
door was thrown open, and he heard a voice that 
he knew — a very enthralling voice it was, with a 
little sort of drop in it every now and then, some- 
thing between a laugh and a sob. 

‘ Enter Miss Annie Fraser,’ she called, and stood 
in the doorway, curtseying to him grandly. 

‘ O Annie, you’re just the same as ever,’ said 
Lewis, springing forward to meet her. 

6 1 ! the same ! There, you show how greatly 
you are mistaken, sir ! I ’m grown up, quite fin- 
ished. Look at me carefully ; if you touch me, 
I ’ll break.’ She spun round and round on tiptoe 
before him ; then, stopping, looked up at him 
quickly. ‘ You are not quite so tall as you were. 
There, don’t be angry— I only meant that I was 
taller ! How do you get on in Mr. Jerningham’s 
office, Loo ? ’ 

‘ Oh, well enough.’ 

4 And with Dinah ? ’ she asked immediately. 

‘ I like her very much.’ 

Annie glanced at him under her eyelashes. ‘ I 
don’t know how I am going to live here,’ she 
went on. ‘ I ’ve carried a can of soup to three 
bedridden old women this afternoon, and tidied 


84 


OYER THE HILLS 


up the altar, and read uncle his newspaper, and 
it ’ s only five o’clock. It was much better fun in 
the convent at Brussels. ’ 

4 You won’t have much use for your fine satin 
shoes here, Annie,’ said Lewis, still holding in his 
hand the little slipper. 

Annie looked at it and sighed. ‘No,’ she said, 

4 unless they dance by themselves without me. 
Oh, but I will,’ she brightened up suddenly. 
‘I’m going to every dance in the county. Uncle 
says I may. I shall go to the ball at Ubster in 
winter, Lewis, and you will see all the men crowd- 
ing round me wanting me to dance with them. 
Oh ! you know nothing about me now. ’ 

She silenced the bird in its cage by the window 
in the most summary manner, by throwing a cloth 
over it. ‘ Uncle likes the creature,’ she observed. 

‘ I suppose if you can’t see, you want to hear all 
the more. He hears so much ; it makes me feel 
quite queer sometimes. He knows who you are 
by the sound of your feet. ’ 

The old man came into the room at the moment, 
and she motioned to Lewis not to speak to him. 
He came forward slowly with his hand stretched 
out before him ; smiling faintly to himself as usual : 
a little more bent, a little paler, with his simple 
face more faded, and his cassock more threadbare 
than when Lewis had seen him last. ‘ Are you 
there, Annie ? ’ he asked. 


OYER TIIE HILLS 


85 


£ Yes, sir.’ 

He walked towards the window, pausing sud- 
denly. 

£ There is some one in the room, Annie. ’ 

‘ I am, uncle, ’ she said. 

‘ Some one else. ’ 

Annie laughed, holding him back with one hand. 
£ Well, who ? Tell me ? Do you know ? Stand 
there and tell me . 5 

He stretched out his hand and said, c Shake 
hands with me, Lewis ; you ’ve come back.’ 

Lewis looked at him astonished, and Annie nod- 
ded, as much as to say, ‘ I told you so . 5 

He sat down in his chair by the window, lean- 
ing back with his hands on the arms. 

£ It ’s a long, dark night,’ he said simply. A 
quick flush of sympathy crossed the young man’s 
face. He bent forward, laying his strong hand 
over one of the old priest’s feeble ones, looking 
earnestly into the blind face with his brave, blue 
eyes. 

£ Indeed it is, sir, but you have got Annie back 
again now. ’ 

Her uncle smiled — the faint smile, that is almost 
scorn, with which those who are greatly afflicted, 
and who bear their affliction with patience, receive 
the cheap efforts of consolation offered to them by 
others who know nothing of what they have to 
bear. 


86 


O VEB- THE HILLS 


‘ Annie lias quick eyes,’ he said ; 4 bright eyes, 
I daresay. I have never seen them . 9 

Lewis looked into them at the moment. ‘ They 
are very bright,’ he answered, and Annie dropped 
them and smiled, well pleased. 


CHAPTER XI 


The candles had just been lighted on the altar : 
Annie observed with distress that one of them was 
dripping wax on to the velvet cloth. c I shall 
have to remove that to-morrow,’ she thought. 
It was nearly dark now. The choir rose to sing. 
Annie leant on the rail in front of her, her wan- 
dering thoughts not following a word that they 
sang ; suddenly, she became aware that the door 
opened softly, and that some one came in whose 
entrance caused a flutter in the little church. 

She could not see who it was, and could not de- 
cently turn round at that moment. Could it be 
Lewis Campbell, she wondered, and arranged her- 
self as she dropped on her knees, with a view to 
looking behind her when she rose at the end of 
the prayer. 

She managed a swift glance over her shoulder, 
which was perfectly decorous, but the dusk did 
not enable her to distinguish who the stranger 
was ; she could only make out that it was not 
Lewis. 

Another hymn began, and a voice that did not 


88 


OVEE THE HILLS 


belong to the choir was singing. Annie listened. 
Where had she heard it before ? 

‘ Rose of the World ! Star of the Sea ! 

Mother of sinners, pray for me ! 5 

Annie remembered. She did not need to look 
behind her again. She bent her head piously, and 
fixed her eyes on her service book when her uncle 
got into the pulpit. ‘ Is his wife with him, I won- 
der ? 5 she thought. £ I should like to see her. 
Will he remember me ? 5 

Half an hour later, when her uncle had gone 
into the vestry, as she stood extinguishing the 
candles upon the altar, she was not altogether 
surprised to hear some one walk quietly up the 
empty aisle. 

£ How do you do, Miss Fraser ? I am afraid 
you have forgotten me , 5 said Lord Glarn. 

Annie daintily extinguished the second candle 
and held out her hand. 

£ Indeed, I have not , 5 she said. ‘ I knew who 
it was when I heard your voice . 5 

He paused a few paces away from the altar, and 
stood watching her as she slowly extinguished the 
candles. 

£ When I came to Glarn last, you were away 
from home. At school ? 5 he said at length. 

£ At another school , 5 said Annie, £ not Miss Mac- 
neil’s— a school in Brussels, where everything was 
quite different . 5 


OYER THE HILLS 


89 


She stood in the full blaze of the candlelight, 
the dusk of the church behind her. As she spoke 
to the Marquis, she went on putting out the can- 
dles one by one, and as each went out her face 
changed with the changing light. At last, when 
only one was left, she said, smiling, 4 Now you 
must go out, for I have to lock the door of the 
chapel and wait for my uncle there.’ He went 
slowly down the empty church, and paused at the 
open door. Annie’s face, with the pale, golden 
hair like a nimbus round her brow, was the only 
thing in the light. Then she extinguished the 
last candle, and he heard her light steps come 
down the aisle. They stepped over the threshold 
together into the pure evening stillness, and Annie 
locked the church door. 4 I wait here for my 
uncle,’ she said. 

They were silent for a minute ; then Lord Glarn 
turned to her. 4 You are a Catholic, of course, 
Miss Fraser % ’ 

Something in the tone of the question made 
Annie laugh. 

4 1 suppose I am. I have been half and half. 
When I was at Miss Macneil’s, you know, we went 
to the Presbyterian Church ; then, of course, at 
Brussels it was the other way. ’ 

4 It ’s a good thing,’ he said, as if he were speak- 
ing to himself, 4 to believe in something ; it ’s a 
great safeguard— to young people. ’ 


90 


OYER THE HILLS 


4 Have you felt the want of it, my lord ? ’ Annie 
asked, with the little laugh in her throat that 
made her speech so sweet. He looked at her for 
a minute closely before he spoke. 

4 Yes,’ he said, 4 as a boy I was exceedingly 
religious. I might have gone through life like 
that, but circumstances,’ he paused, 4 have obliged 
me to see things as they are. ’ 

4 There ! ’ cried Annie, 4 you ’ve just explained 
quite what I mean ; that is why I can’t pray to 
Our Lady, or to any one else. I just happen to 
see things always as they really are, not as 
they should be, according to what good people 
say.’ 

4 Annie ! Annie ! are you there, child ? ’ called 
her uncle, coming slowly round the little path that 
led from the 'vestry. 

4 Yes, uncle. Here is Lord Glarn.’ 

She drew her uncle’s hand through her arm 
with no unnecessary tenderness, such as some 
people would have displayed to one so aged 
and so feeble. The Marquis watched them after 
he had bid them good-night. He observed Annie’s 
manner to the old man without criticism. It 
was evidently no part of her character to play 
Cordelia. 

4 What a charming face though ! ’ he said to 
himself as he turned away. 4 She looked half a 
spirit in the light of that last candle. 4 No man 


OYER THE HILLS 


91 


will ever get tired of that woman — till he hates 
her. ’ From which we may judge that the obser- 
vation of other people, without the charity that 
‘ believeth all things,’ is apt to lead to somewhat 
dreary conclusions. 


CHAPTER XII 


After that day when he had first seen Annie on 
her return, Lewis was a great deal at Edderty. 
He dared not go on Sunday, but the next day, and 
the next, and the next, and so on. It was not 
only natural, it was almost inevitable, that he 
should fall in love with her. Annie had expected 
nothing else ; indeed, nothing less would have sat- 
isfied her, for what other thing could she have to 
amuse herself with during those longer summer 
weeks when she must stay at home. During the 
previous winter some of her mother’s relatives had 
begun to interest themselves in the girl. One 
lady who had even gone to see her at Brussels, 
had taken such a fancy to Annie, that she had 
brought her back for two or three months to Lon- 
don. The taste of gaiety which she had enjoyed 
there had made Annie suddenly blossom out into 
quite a fashionable young woman. 

It required apparently but a touch to do so. 
She had found her natural element, and took to it 
kindly. So it made it all the worse for her to 
have to return to that dull, bare house. She was 


OVER THE HILLS 


93 


surprised and excited to find that Lewis Campbell 
appeared considerably more attractive than most 
of the men who had dangled after her when she 
was away. 

She did not deny for a moment to herself that 
she liked him. She was not afraid of being run 
away with by her feelings, and entered into the 
thing gaily, as if she were playing a game. 

‘ How, don’t talk nonsense, Loo ! ’ she would 
say when he became very ardent ; ‘ you know, 
everything that you say is impossible.’ 

‘ But why, why, Annie ? ’ he would entreat, 
trying to make her look at him. She generally 
spoke with her eyelids dropped. They were walk- 
ing home together one afternoon when they had 
met at the old woman’s cottage, just as they used 
to do years ago when they both were children. 
Jane Anne of course had been delighted that 
Lewis should undertake any ‘ work of charity. ’ 
She loaded him with offerings and tracts. (Mar- 
garet could not read, and much preferred the to- 
bacco which Lewis gave her on his own account to 
all his stepmother’s gifts.) He had found Annie 
already in the cottage, and after a very brief visi- 
tation, he turned to walk home with her. ‘ Why, 
why, Annie ? ’ he repeated, standing still to try 
and make her look up. 

‘ Oh, because it ’s impossible ! ’ said Annie again, 
in her light, indifferent tone. 


94 


OYEE THE HILLS 


4 Why, because you’re a Catholic?’ Lewis 
asked. 

4 Oh no,’ she said quietly, 4 not that at all — just 
because you ’re poor.’ 

4 Have I not been working hard for the last 
year,’ said Lewis, 4 working at work which I 
hate, all to make money some day ? ’ 

4 Yery well, make the money then. A man is 
worth nothing who can’t make money. ’ 

4 Would you love me if I were rich ? ’ 

4 Of course I should, ’ was Annie’s prompt reply. 
c It would take only a very little to make me love 
you, Loo, I know that ; but I really couldn’t be 
foolish enough to do it as long as you are poor. 
Do you really think,’ she went on, 4 that I am 
going quietly to marry you, and come to live in a 
house like Glarn, without money, without neigh- 
bours, with your stepmother, just sitting in those 
dark rooms looking out at that hillside and the 
sheep, for perhaps twenty years, and then to die 
and be buried under a horrible grey stone in that 
ghastly little churchyard by the house ? — Why, 
I’d much rather live on with uncle all my 
life.’ 

Lewis lifted his head with a sudden movement 
of pride. 4 1 do expect it, ’ he said. 4 1 think if 
you loved me you would sit for twenty years in 
the vault of the church there in darkness itself, 
and think nothing of it. I won’t be bargained 


OVER THE HILLS 


95 


with, Annie. I ’ll bargain with no woman to love 
me if I make money.’ 

She looked up at him, catching her breath, ad- 
miring, in spite of herself, the way he looked at 
her and spoke. She inclined towards him with an 
involuntary yielding gesture, and he threw his 
arm round her and kissed her again and again. 
After a minute Annie drew herself away. She 
smoothed her cheek with her hand — it burned red 
— and asked him softly, 4 Will you always care for 
me like this, Lewis ? ’ 

She had not anticipated such a scene. 

4 If you do, ’ he answered ; his voice broke into 
sudden passion : 4 Oh ! my love, my love, do you 
want me to make you promises about that ? ’ 

Annie looked at him curiously out of the corners 
of her eyes for a moment. He folded her little 
hands together and laid them against his mouth 
and covered them with kisses. 

4 Promise, ’ said Annie, 4 promise a big promise 
— that you will love me always. ’ 

Lewis moved a step away from her. He stood 
bareheaded and stretched out his hands, and lifted 
his face to the sky. 

4 For ever and ever and a day beyond it,’ he 
swore, and Annie laughed her little gurgling laugh, 
and drew her face away when he would have 
kissed her again. 

He left her at her own door, and she went in to 


96 


OYER THE HILLS 


the little sitting-room. It was empty, and she sat 
down in her uncle’s chair by the window. 

‘ I did not make myself,’ she said, speaking as 
if to another person ; 6 I was made this way. I 
do not see that it is any better to pretend you are 
what you are not. I do not do that at least. 
Will he love me always ? There is nothing to 
love. ’ 

As for Lewis, he walked home again, holding 
his head high, whistling to himself as he went. 

As he came into the dark house, old Phemie 
came up to him. ‘ Mister Lewis,’ she said, in a 
significant whisper, ‘I’m thinking you ’ 11 better 
be moving those rods and guns of yours from the 
west room — yon ’s wanted now.’ 

‘ Why, for what, Phemie ? ’ 

‘ For the King that ’s coming,’ she said, with a 
chuckle at the young man’s dumbfoundered ex- 
clamation of ‘ The king that ’s coming ’ until 

the usual interpretation of the country saying 
swept across him. 

‘ By Heaven, woman ! that ’s bad news for me, ’ 
he said. ‘ Who ’s wanting that ? ’ 

‘ Ho the mistress, sir, the feckless body. She ’s 
jist to sit doon, and fold her hands, and wait for ’t 
— never a thing prepared. It ’s your mother was 
the brave leddy — hech ! hech ! I mind well how 
she was proud the day you were born ! ‘ ‘ See my 

bonny boy, Phemie,” she would say ; “his eyes 


OVER THE HILLS 


97 


are as blue as the stones in my ring !” ’ She rolled 
away mumbling, and Lewis stood staring before 
him, a torrent of feeling, anger, shame, jealousy, 
rising at his heart. 

‘ Have you come back ? ’ said his stepmother, 
coming up to him. He started, and would have 
turned away without answering ; but she looked 
so worn out and timid with circles under her eyes, 
and her thin face twitching nervously as she 
spoke, that he could not but be sorry for her. 

He followed her into the drawing-room, and sat 
down by her side, took one of her hands, and held 
it gently between his own. As he spoke the blood 
darkened his cheeks under the tan. 4 Mammy,’ he 
said, ‘ Phemie has been telling me that you want 
the west room. I’ll clear out all my things to- 
morrow. ’ 

Jane Anne’s fingers closed convulsively over his 
hand. She covered her face with her handker- 
chief. 4 Yes,’ she faltered, 4 if I live— if — if ’ 

4 Yes, yes, it ’s all right — of course, it is — you 
must not be afraid. Don’t fret yourself about it,’ 
said Lewis, soothing her. Jane Anne could not 
have brought herself to allude to the matter to any 
one, and it was a moment of intense thankfulness 
to her when she realised that Lewis knew about 
it, for she had dreaded his reception of the news. 

He left her after a little and went off to the 
west room— a place filled with his own belongings, 


98 


OVEE THE HILLS 


which had been his own nursery ; where he used 
to spend most of his time as a boy. How another 
child was going to inhabit it. It seemed like a 
ludicrous dream, and the strangeness of it drove 
all thought of his own affairs out of his mind for 
the time. 

• Next morning he had all his effects cleared out 
of the room, leaving on the wall some of the pic- 
tures he had cared for most as a child. Phemie 
regarded them grimly. 4 She ’ll up with the texts 
in place o’ these, sir. It ’s I that ’s wondering if 
there ’ll be ony thing ready against the time comes 
— for ever sewing, and never making but things 
for the black heathen, that I’se swear even the 
negroes ’ll never put on.’ 


CHAPTEE XIII 


There was scarcely a sound in the whole forest. 
Lewis sat still and listened, but he could hear noth- 
ing except the droning of the bees in the heather 
at his feet. With the burning stillness above and 
the grey silence around him, it was like something 
in a dream. Presently there came a light footstep 
up the road ; still he sat and waited, looking on 
the ground. He did not move or break the luxu- 
rious pleasure that it gave him to hear each foot- 
fall coming nearer and nearer between the beating 
of his heart. Then a pause, a catching of skirts 
on the grass, a shadow before him, and he started 
up, snatching off his cap, and looking at her in a 
dazzled sort of way. 4 You’ve really come,’ he 
said, as Annie seated herself on the edge of the 
stone. 

She appeared to have one of her fits of absence, 
and kept looking past him, away into the woods, 
staring through the ghost-like procession of the 
tree stems that stood thick to left and right. 

4 How quiet this place is, Loo ! ’ she exclaimed 
presently. 4 1 think that after my death my ghost 


100 


OYER TI1E HILLS 


will walk here, just wander about for ever thread- 
ing in and out amongst those stems. ’ 

4 I like bare open places better,’ said he. 4 Do 
you remember, Annie, the day we watched for the 
vision of the Blessed Virgin in the old sheep fank ? 
How sore my knees got, and she never came ! ’ 

4 Of course not ; I knew she never would.’ 

4 Do you remember how you used to say that 
you would marry me then, Annie ? How you are 
really going to do it.’ 

4 I — I ’m not quite sure,’ said Annie, and they 
both laughed. 

4 How, that is the only thing necessary in Scotch 
law,’ said Lewis, 4 44 consent of both parties.” 
We might be married to-morrow if you were quite 
sure.’ He asked her suddenly, 4 Annie, do you 
believe in any one ? ’ 

4 Yes.’ He waited eagerly for her to go on, but 
she only laughed. 4 Hot you, Loo ! you don’t 
know your own mind by half.’ 

4 Who is it then ? ’ he said sulkily. 

4 Myself,’ answered Annie. 4 1 know what I ’m 
doing— always ; I never do anything with my 
eyes shut. ’ She looked at him seriously, almost 
as a mother might look at a child for a moment, 
then quickly began to chatter and to laugh again. 

The long hot afternoon wore away without a 
cloud in the brilliant blue above them, without a 
sound except the grieving of the stockdoves in the 


OVEB THE HILLS 


101 


deep thickets behind. ‘ They sit in the dark and 
cry there all day long,’ said Annie, holding up her 
finger to make him listen. 

4 Cry ! they are making love. ’ The gurgling, 
grieving sound broke softly through the trees again 
and yet again. 

‘ Ho,’ said Annie, dropping her voice to a whis- 
per, just as she used to do when she told him mar- 
vellous Catholic stories of the saints long ago. 
Lewis, brought up a bleak Presbyterian on ‘ Fox’s 
Book of Martyrs,’ used to love those tales. ‘Ho,’ 
she went on, ‘ it ’s a soul that keeps remembering 
— always remembering and can’t forget. Don’t 
you hear it, “ It was sweet once ,” it says, “ /Sweet 
once , but now it ’s done — it ’ s done ,” and it refuses 
to be comforted, and just goes on and on. ’ 

They listened again in silence for a minute. 
The sun that had mounted so high in the heavens 
had begun to descend ; a faint, fresh breeze went 
through the grey stems. 

‘ It ’s done, it ’s done ! ’ Lewis repeated slowty, 
raising his head and looking to the west. 

‘ I must go home,’ said Annie. 

‘ Wait a moment, I want you to sign this,’ he 
said. He began searching in his pocket for a scrap 
of paper. ‘ Well, this will do. See, write on the 
blank page. Shall I do it first ? ’ 

‘ Yes, let me see how it looks.’ She watched 
him kneeling on the ground, tracing the words 


102 


OYER THE HILLS 


with difficulty upon the uneven surface of the 
stone that he used as a table. Then she bent over 
him and read in her clear voice— 

4 I hereby declare that Annie Fraser.’ He 
stopped and tore off what he had written, and be- 
gan again. 4 I hereby declare before God 5 

‘ Stop,’ said Annie, 4 there 5 s no need of that. 5 

‘ Why not ; it is before God surely ? 5 

4 Oh well, go on. 5 

4 Declare before God that Annie Fraser is my 
lawful wife. 5 He signed his name, and handed 
the document to her, but Annie looked at it ask- 
ance. 4 Go on, 5 he said ; 4 sign it. 5 

4 If I do, 5 she said, 4 you must promise never, 
never to tell any one, Loo, till you have money 
enough of your own to marry me properly. 5 

4 But if you sign that, you will be married prop- 
erly. A court of law would consider that as valid 
a marriage as any. 5 

Annie raised her eyebrows. 4 Yery well ; only 
you must promise me that you will never tell any 
one about this without my leave. 5 

4 How fond you are of promises ! 5 

‘Promise, 5 said Annie again. She looked up 
at him, the flickering shadow of the trees thrown 
upon her face, holding the pencil in her hand, as 
if uncertain whether she would sign the paper or 
not. 

4 Well, 5 he said, 4 1 promise. 5 


OVER THE HILLS 


103 


4 On your word and honour ? 5 

4 On my word and honour.’ 

4 Never ? ’ 

4 Never.’ 

She drew a deep sigh of relief. 

4 Go on ; sign it then,’ he said impatiently, hut 
Annie was turning the paper in her hand. 

4 Who is the letter from ? ’ she asked. 

4 That — oh ! it ’s a note from Mr. Jerningham, 
I think. Tear off that page. Go on, Annie.’ 

Annie, however, did not tear the letter. She 
folded it up and up, and twisted it in her hands ; 
then she said, 4 1 ’ll take it home and look at it, 
Loo ; I won’t do it in a hurry. ’ 

Lewis groaned. 4 Oh, you are such a child,’ 
he said ; 4 you seem never able to make up your 
mind about anything ! ’ 

4 1 don’t do it all in a hurry, as you do, any 
way, and then repent afterwards.’ 

4 Very well, take it home with you, and look at 
it all night if you like — a week if you choose — 
only do it some day. You ’d better give me the 
note though ; you don’t want that.’ 

But Annie put the letter hastily into her pocket. 

4 Hush,’ she said, 4 don’t speak so loud ; there is 
some one coming. It is the Marquis,’ she added, 
as a figure on horseback emerged from the shadow 
of the wood into the open bit of road before them. 
They stood silent, as he passed without looking to 


104 : 


OVER THE HILLS 


right or left. On the spongy roadway his horse’s 
hoofs made no sound : he rode slowly, a good 
horse, and made a pleasant sight with his easy, 
graceful movements and dark thoughtful face. 
His head was bent, and he seemed to notice noth- 
ing about him as he rode. 

‘Doesn’t he look well?’ said Annie when he 
was out of hearing. 

‘ Yes, why should he not ? Who should look 
well if not he ? ’ And as she turned round with a 
glance of scrutiny at him as he spoke, Lewis 
laughed and straightened his shoulders, looking at 
her with his frank eyes ; Annie, after gazing at 
him for a moment as he stood there, slim and 
straight, amidst the straight stems about them, 
said in her childlike way, ‘ What a pity that you 
have no money, Loo ! ’ 

The sun was burning red as they took their ways 
home. 

‘ It ’s done, it ’s done, it ’<$ done ,’ cried the stock- 
doves from the dark thickets, mourning their sweet 
mourning, and refusing to be comforted. 


CHAPTER XIY 


In October, when Lewis returned to his work at 
Ubster, Miss Jerningham could not but observe 
some change in him. He was not nearly so talk- 
ative as before, and seemed always to be thinking 
about something different from the subject in 
hand. 

But whether his thoughts were pleasant or not, 
Dinah could not tell. He did not, as she noticed, 
get on so well with her father as he used to do. 
Ilis work now brought him more in contact with 
Mr. Jerningham, and their two natures were bound 
to disagree. Jerningham was accustomed to over- 
power every one with whom he had anything to 
do, excepting Dinah ; but he now began to find 
beneath Campbell’s youth and carelessness some- 
thing, which at first showed itself only by a word 
here and there. But flint had struck on flint, and 
Dinah, watching, knew that there could not long 
be peace between them. Lewis was not idle dur- 
ing working hours : he gave in one way the great- 
est satisfaction to his employers : but the whole 
thing seemed to be done with a touch of swagger, 


106 


OYER THE HILLS 


as much as to say, ‘ I do this for a freak, because 
I choose ; I drop it any moment that I like.’ 

‘ He will never make money,’ was Mr. Jerning- 
ham’s reply to his partner’s commendation of the 
young man’s abilities. 

There was a ball in Ubster that winter, a great 
affair, that had excited the imagination of all the 
youth of the country for some time beforehand. 
Dinah had persuaded her mother to allow her to 
ask Annie Fraser to spend some days with them 
and go to it. She and Annie corresponded occa- 
sionally, but this was their first meeting since they 
parted as schoolgirls three years before, and Dinah 
looked forward to it with interest. She had no- 
ticed (for some things make the most obtuse mar- 
vellously sensitive) how, when she mentioned to 
Lewis that Annie was coming to stay with them, 
his manner became suddenly alert, just as it used 
to be. She heard him go singing about the house, 
something which to Dinah’s Protestant ears sound- 
ed a song ; in reality, it was merely a line of a 
Catholic hymn that he had picked up from Annie, 
the hymn that was most often sung in their 
little church. Lewis stood looking out at the win- 
dow the afternoon that Annie was going to arrive. 

‘ Rose of the World ! Star of the Sea ! 

Mother of sinners, pray for me ! ’ 
he sang in his charmingly true voice. 

4 Is that a song ? ’ Dinah asked. 


OYER THE HILLS 


107 


He started as if she had interrupted his thoughts. 

‘ Ho, a hymn — that I ’ve heard some of the people 
at home singing, ’ he answered. There was a rat- 
tle of wheels on the cobble-stones of the courtyard 
before the house. ‘ There she is,’ he exclaimed, 
and went away to meet Annie at the door. Some- 
thing made Dinah stay behind. She did not want 
to see him meet her. She stood up waiting, and 
presently Annie came running into the drawing- 
room, with both hands stretched out before her. 
It was a dark afternoon, and the room was lighted 
by a great fire. Annie brought a breath of frosty 
air along with her : her face was white with cold, 
and frost sparkled on the edge of her furs. 

‘ Oh, Dinah Jerningham ! You heiress ! Is 
this you ? ’ she cried, lifting her little cold face to 
be kissed. Dinah greeted her very warmly, then 
they stood and looked at one another, Dinah some- 
what embarrassed. Annie, never embarrassed 
at any time, was merely occupied in criticising 
her. 

Dinah drew a chair up to the fire, and Annie 
sat down opposite to her, dropping her muff on 
the floor. They exchanged remarks upon her 
journey, then Dinah began to feel at a loss for 
conversation. When two people who have once 
been intimate meet again, after some years, unless 
the correspondence between them has been singu- 
larly close, it requires tact on both sides to prevent 


108 


OVEK THE HILLS 


some awkwardness at their first meeting. Annie 
had no experience of feeling at a loss with any 
one. She appeared perfectly natural. 

4 Well, Dinah,’ she began, looking at Dinah 
critically as she sat opposite to her, 4 you ’re not 
exactly a beauty, but you ’re ever so much better 
looking than you used to be. How ugly I am, 
am I not ? ’ 

4 Indeed you are not,’ said Dinah, laughing. 

4 Oh, I am, just now, when I ’m blue and green 
with cold, as I am to-night ; sometimes I’m not 
so bad. Do you remember the last time we met, 
the day you left Miss Macneil’s for good? How 
she told you you had 44 great responsibilities.” 
You look as if you had now ; your eyes are so sol- 
emn. Do you remember the Marquis, Dinah ? 
I have seen him several times at Glarn. He is 
going to the ball to-morrow night. He asked me 
about you the last time that I saw him. I told 
him that you had married a Polish Count and 
gone out to Siberia.’ 

4 Oh, Annie, you are just the same as ever. 
How can you be so foolish? ’ 

4 Well, one must say something. Have you 
many adorers, Dinah ? I suppose so ? ’ 

4 1— no,’ said Dinah ; 4 I haven’t any.’ She 
spoke gravely. 

4 Oh, poor thing! Well, I’ll hand you over 
some of mine ; I have more than I know what 


OVER TI1E HILLS 


109 


to do with,’ said Annie in her quick, absent 
way. 

Dinah had heard this already from other people 
— female friends — not likely to rate Annie’s attrac- 
tions too highly. She looked at her now, won- 
dering where her fascination lay. Indeed, with 
Annie Fraser that was always the provoking part 
of it ; even an honest woman like Dinah, anxious 
to see the truth, could not have told you. You 
might begin at her soft, colourless hair, her brown 
face with the pale skin. Yes ; she had certainly 
delicate eyebrows ; but if you took her to pieces 
you could find a hundred faults ; you could find, 
if you were critical, nothing to praise ; and, lo ! 
when you had exhausted your criticism, there she 
was, with her charm unassailable as ever, to draw 
men’s hearts after her as the rivers of water. 

‘ Do you like Lewis Campbell, Dinah ? ’ she 
asked presently, and Dinah gave a grave assent. 
‘ Your cousin dotes on him,’ Annie went on. 
‘ It ’s the funniest thing to see them going to 
church together, and she stands and looks up at 
him in such a worshipping way. I wonder how 
he will like the new baby.’ 

‘ Baby, Annie ? Whose ? ’ 

Annie laughed. ‘ Oh, did you not know ? 
Well, I suppose it is funny. It will be a queer 
baby, I should think, but it ’ll give her something 
to do. ’ 


110 


OVER THE HILLS 


4 Oh, it ’s not possible — Jane Anne ! 5 

4 Yes, it is ! Queer, isn ’t it, to think of a per- 
son called Jane Anne with a baby ? You ’ll have 
to send it a silver mug and a spoon, Dinah, for 
I ’m sure there will be nothing for it. They have 
no money. How people can be so silly, I don’t 
know. ’ 

Dinah was silent. A host of pictures rose in 
her mind one after one. She saw herself again a 
little child in the nursery, sick, sitting up in bed 
listening to the sounds going on down below. 
There had been a dinner party in the house, her 
nurse had left her alone, and seemed to have for- 
gotten her, and she was hot and thirsty ; then the 
door opened, and Jane Anne came in, an orange 
in her hand, and she sat on the bed and soothed 
the child to sleep. Then she saw herself, sulky 
and passionate, sitting under the table in the nur- 
sery, grinding her little teeth together in blind 
rage against nurse, who had punished her for 
some childish fault ; and Jane Anne came in and 
coaxed her out from her hiding-place, and whis- 
pered to her gentle words that always rang like 
silver in the child’s dark thoughts, 4 Learn of Me ; 
for I am meek and lowly in heart? or (a favourite 
saying of Jane Anne’s), 4 ILe that ruleth his own 
spirit is better than he that tdketh a city. ’ It was 
partly the incongruity of 4 taking a city ’ and Jane 
Anne that affected Dinah in this last. Remem- 


OYER THE HILLS 111 

bering these things, she felt a lump rise in her 
throat. How forgetful she had been in the new 
interests and wider experiences of her youth of 
that kind friend of her childhood, from whom she 
had learned the first lessons of her faith. Now 
Jane Anne was alone, amongst people who were 
still strangers to her, for she had told Dinah in 
her letters that she could not ‘ penetrate the re- 
serve of any of her few neighbours.’ Alone, ill 
perhaps, and weighted with the sense of a new 
responsibility that Dinah felt sure her helpless 
hands could never carry. 

Annie’ s chatter flowed on, but Dinah gave scant 
attention to it. She was very silent all the even- 
ing, so grave that Annie laughed at her. 4 You ’re 
as solemn as a judge, Dinah. It ’s a thousand 
pities you’re not a Catholic, you’d have made 
such an impressive lady abbess, praying all night 
before the altar. Do you know that they wanted 
to make a nun of me at Brussels, and that old 
Lady Jane — who ’s supposed to be a Protestant 
too ! — said she thought it would be a very good 
thing ! Fancy me a poor Clare with naked feet 
and half starved ! I ’d rather be warm in Purga- 
tory ! ’ 

4 Annie, do not speak in that way ; it is wrong. 
You ought not to laugh at what you believe.’ 

4 But I don't believe it, that ’s just what it is. 
How can I ? and you don’t either, Dinah. All 


112 


OYER TIIE HILLS 


that you say about religion is just because you 
think it suitable.’ 

Dinah looked at her without speaking. They 
were sitting together talking by Annie’s bedroom 
fire. Annie had her front hair twisted up in curl- 
papers, her eyes gleamed with laughter. She 
looked like some little goblin thing as she sat 
combing out the long, pale strands of hair and 
chattering by the fire. ‘ Is there any one , ’ she 
went on, ‘ who would sacrifice anything that was 
real for any flummery about right and wrong ? 
Take all the people you know, Dinah. Your 
father ? Would your father lose all his money 
for “ conscience’ sake” % ’ 

6 No, Annie, but you must not ’ 

‘ Well, well, you must take real people if you ’re 
going to look at the truth. Would your mother 
give up— say her dinner, her carriage, her house ? ’ 
Dinah was silent. 

‘ Let me think ? Would Lewis Campbell give 

up ’ She paused, looking curiously at Dinah 

under her eyelashes — 6 give up success, pride— any- 
thing ? ’ 

‘ You ’re wrong, Annie, quite,’ said Dinah, with 
sudden vehemence. She stood up, and looked 
down at Annie, speaking with a depth of feeling 
that she seldom showed. ‘ lie would — I am sure 
that he would. I do not know what he believes, 
but I know that for anything he does believe in — 


OYER THE HILLS 


113 


for honour, for any one he loved— I am sure that 
he would give up everything. ’ 

Annie laughed till tears stood in her eyes. 4 1 
believe you are in love with him, Dinah ! ’ 

A slow flush gathered under Dinah’s sallow 
skin, but she looked steadily at the other girl. 
4 Have you known him since you were a child, 
Annie, and do not know that he could never do 
anything mean ? ’ 

4 But, bless my heart, Dinah, do you think 
every one who is not religious is mean ? •’ 

4 1 think,’ said Dinah, 4 1 know that if we have 
no help from Heaven, we all are capable of any- 
thing. ’ 

Annie smiled. 4 Well, I believe there are some 
people — Miss Macneil, for instance, and your 
cousin — who would give up anything for what they 
believed. ’ 

4 Yes, of course, both of them would.’ 

4 Exactly, because they ’re both old maids (your 
cousin is just an old maid married), with nothing 
to give up. ’ 

Dinah stooped to bid her good-night. 4 Let us 
think about ourselves, Annie, and not about other 
people. ’ 

4 Oh, very well ; I don’t pretend to be good for 
a moment. Good-night, Dinah. I’m going to 
dance with the Marquis to-morrow, and ask him 
if he ’d like a turkey’s egg, and whether he ’d give 


114 


OVEE THE HILLS 


up all that he has for righteousness’ sake. It ’s 
only those that have little to lose that are so de- 
vout, Dinah ! ’ 

In her own room Dinah stood for a few minutes 
looking out at the window into the still frosty 
night. 

4 O God, give me a true heart,’ she prayed, 

4 and help me to be honest with myself.’ 


CHAPTER XV 


Tiie next day was one of bitter sparkling frost. 
Out of doors the causeways of the town rang like 
iron underfoot, and as the frost grew keener in the 
evening every sound gained a strange distinctness. 
All day carriages had been driving in from the 
country, so that inns were crowded with strangers 
and servants : by the evening it was all astir. 
The carriages of belated arrivals from a distance 
passed in from the main road, the horses clattering 
and scrambling on the uneven streets. Lights 
shone from every window ; against the purple sky 
the lamps in the harbour hung like stars. Indoors 
the great old-fashioned house was bright with can- 
dles, and warm with roaring fires. Annie was in 
brilliant good-humour. She came into Dinah’s 
room to display her dresses. Dinah was sitting at 
the mirror, her maid doing her hair : her face was 
very grave, and she had replied with indifference 
to the woman’s remarks about her gown. Annie 
entered s mil ing, holding the bodice of a ball dress 
on each arm. ‘ Shall I wear this to-night, Dinah, 
or the green net ? ’ she asked. She stood on the 


116 


OYEE THE HILLS 


hearthrug in her silk slip, with the light on her 
bare' arms and her white bosom, holding up the 
green gauze against her face. Dinah glanced at 
her own reflection in the glass ; her sallow face 
looked plain and heavy — at least so it seemed to 
her — but Annie was wonderfully transfigured by 
high spirits and excitement. Dinah had never 
seen her look like that before. She understood 
her charm then. She thought of Lewis, standing 
as she had seen him the day before, his handsome 
head bent forward, his eyes on the door, waiting 
for Annie to come in. 

She considered the dresses for a moment, and 
then she said, 4 Put on the other, I think ’ (it was 
not so pretty), and Annie, nodding to her gaily, 
took up the other bodice and went off to finish her 
toilette. 

When she was gone Dinah sent her maid away. 
She got into the rich gown that lay on the bed, 
hurriedly, without any of those little pats and 
touches to it that mark a woman’s interest in her 
dressing. Its outlines were rather harsh, and it 
was not becoming. She tied the ribbon round her 
neck, gave one more glance in the mirror, and 
then she knelt down and laid her head on her 
arms. ‘ I am ashamed of myself for ever,’ she 
whispered ; ‘ Annie would never have done any- 
thing so mean as that.’ Then, rising, she went 
and knocked at Annie’s door. 


OYER THE HILLS 


117 


6 Annie, I ’ve come to beg you to wear the green 
dress. I think, after all, it does look better. 
Yes, much. Can I help you ? ’ 

‘Very well,’ answered Annie carelessly, ‘ just 
as you like ; I believe it is the prettiest of the 
two. I ’m late, Dinah ; my hair won’t go up to- 
night. I ’ve a hole in my stocking, and I ’ve lost 
one of my slippers. ’ Dinah stayed to help her, 
rustling about in her own rich gown. 

‘ What a silk ! I wish I were you. Ho, I 
don’t ! ’ cried Annie, laughing. In a few min- 
utes she had given the final touches to her toilette, 
and they went downstairs together. The hall 
was brightly lighted ; Lewis and Mr. Jerningham 
were already waiting for them there. As they 
touched the last steps of the stairs, Annie, spread- 
ing out her crisp gauze skirts in either hand, went 
whirring off down the length of the hall. 

Both men laughed as she passed them like a 
pretty winged moth. 

‘ Doesn’t Dinah look like a mulatto in that hid- 
eous dress ? She ’s not pleased to-night — no won- 
der, looking like that,’ Annie said to Lewis as he 
helped her out of the carriage, when they reached 
the rooms where the ball was held. Dinah and 
her father stood for a minute greeting some ac- 
quaintances in the lobby. Annie looked at Lewis 
and saw his “ She drew her hand from 


his arm to lah and Mrs. Jerningham, 



/ 


118 


OYER THE HILLS 


saying in a low voice, ‘ I ’ve forgotten all that, 
Loo ; I’ve forgotten everything. I ’m going to 
enjoy myself to-night without thinking about any- 
thing disagreeable.’ 

£ Disagreeable, Annie ? ’ said Lewis. 

‘Well, serious ; it’s the same thing,’ she an- 
swered, floating away from him. 

‘ That is Miss Jerningham, the heiress,’ said the 
young men to each other when Dinah came into 
the room, but there was a slight stir when Annie 
passed by. 

Annie Fraser was one of those women who can 
give themselves up to gaiety with an abandonment 
that is very rare. She forgot to be jealous, she 
forgot to be vain, she simply was alive with enjoy- 
ment from her head to her heels. Her eyes grew 
dark with excitement, her face irradiated with 
mirth. She looked as if the first breath of music 
would float her away. 

But to Dinah’s ears as the night went on the 
music grew harsh and deafening ; the lights, the 
colours, and the forms of the dancers, passed be- 
fore her like a fevered dream. She saw only two 
people distinctly — Annie, smiling and gracious ; 
Lewis, taller by half a head than most of the men 
in the room. At last she saw Lord Glarn enter, 
and then she knew that he went up to speak to 
Annie. Annie danced with him more than once ; 
as she was an entirely insignificant person, of 


OYER THE HILLS 


110 


course every one in the room kept looking at them, 
but this only heightened her enjoyment. 

Dinah stood for a moment without a partner, 
in one of the deep window niches, watching them, 
then she saw that Lewis was close beside her. 
His eyes were fixed on Annie, and as he leant for- 
ward his face darkened : a line ran up his fore- 
head from the inner corner of each eyebrow, giv- 
ing it a strangely hard expression, making him 
seem suddenly ten years older. Dinah observed 
him for a minute in silence, then she said in a low 
voice — 

6 She ’s only amusing herself, Lewis . 5 

He started and turned round. ‘ A cat does that 
with a mouse , 5 he said bitterly, £ but the mouse 
dies.’ 

£ Are you or the Marquis the mouse ? ’ asked 
Dinah, smiling. £ Neither of you are very like one.’ 

Lewis laughed ; his brow cleared. He sat down 
by Dinah and began to play with her fan. 

£ Did Annie ever tell you ’ he began sud- 

denly. 

Dinah stopped him : £ Annie never told me any- 
thing of any importance about you and her. ’ 

When the music ceased, Dinah rose, saying she 
must find her mother. 

Meanwhile Annie was saying to the Marquis, 
c There is Miss Jerningham. Do you recognise 
her ? 9 


120 


OYER THE HILLS 


4 I don’t know that I should have known her 
again, ’ he answered ; 4 she has changed a good 
deal. More than you have,’ he added, looking at 
her. 

4 I was so much surprised to see that you knew 
me when you saw me at Glarn,’ said Annie inno- 
cently, her eyelids down ; 4 I thought you had for- 
gotten all about me. ’ 

For answer, Lord Glarn drew something from 
the breast of his coat. 4 Have I forgotten ? ’ he 
asked, bending towards her, holding out a little 
handkerchief. 

Annie looked at it, and burst out into little trills 
of laughter. 4 It belongs to Miss Jerningham,’ 
she said delightedly. 4 She tied up your hand — 
you have forgotten. I sat and looked on. See 
D. J. in the corner of it ! You have looked at it 
with great care, my lord ! ’ 

Just at that moment Dinah passed by them. 

4 Come, Dinah,’ she called ; 4 here is something 
which belongs to you. ’ 

Dinah paused, looking at them with astonish- 
ment. 

4 This is yours, I believe, Miss Jerningham,’ said 
Lord Glarn ; 4 but if you do not claim it, perhaps 
I may be allowed to keep it — as a memorial of an 
interesting occasion.’ 

4 It may serve to refresh Lord Glarn’ s memory,’ 
said Annie, adding when Dinah had moved away, 


OYER THE HILLS 


121 


‘ so that the next time he wishes to make a pretty- 
speech he may make sure of the facts beforehand.’ 

£ May I have it back again — from you ? ’ he 
begged, holding out his hand. Lewis was watch- 
ing them at the moment. He saw Annie give 
something to Lord Glarn, who put it with exag- 
gerated care into the breast-pocket of his coat. 

‘ When you give keepsakes, Annie, you should 
choose a less public place,’ said Lewis, as he stood 
by her side in the supper-room a few minutes 
later. 

£ Oh ! ’ she replied innocently, £ you saw it ; he 
asked if he might keep it.’ 

‘ And you gave it to him ? ’ 

£ I ? no,’ said Annie ; ‘ it was not mine to give ; 
it belonged to Dinah Jerningham. If you are 
going to be jealous, Loo, I shall send you away. ’ 

£ Annie, I am not jealous, you may do as you 
like for me — but for your own sake. ’ 

He came near, his blue eyes shining, the lines 
deepening up from his eyebrows, his voice low and 

intense. £ Do you know that a woman who ’ 

£ Hush ! hush ! what are you going to say ? 
Half a dozen people can hear you.’ Annie floated 
away a pace or two with a swirl of her gauzy 
skirts, speaking in the same light voice so as not 
to attract attention, but she grew pale. 

£ Are you not my ’ began Lewis in a still 

lower tone, but she had turned away adroitly and 


122 


OYER THE TIILLS 


began to chatter to Dinah, who was standing 
near. 

‘ Look, Dinah — there— between those two fat 
men,’ she said, pointing out some one on the other 
side of the room. ‘ Do you see that woman ? 
Do you know who she is ? She has been glaring 
at me ever since I came in.’ 

‘ Take care, Annie, you will be overheard*’ said 
Dinah. ‘ Do you not know who that is ? ’ 

‘ Ho, how should I ? There are so many fossils 
here,’ said Annie, glancing about them, where 
there certainly were a considerable number of 
ladies who might have been so described. Scions 
of all the country houses in two counties were 
there — of all ages. At that date, in those parts, 
a lady who had passed her first youth, generally 
wore, when she appeared in public, some garment 
which was hereditary in the family — a flowered 
satin skirt, sent home by some cadet of the house 
from China, or an ‘ Indian scarf,’ or at least her 
mother’s wedding gown ‘ done up ’ by a local 
dressmaker ; so, many of the ladies present, though 
they wore their robes with a fine independence, 
presented figures that were picturesque rather 
than fashionable. 

But the woman Annie indicated was no maiden 
aunt, or dowager in an adapted gown. She was 
not more than two or three-and -thirty, and she 
wore a dress of grey silk faced with a shade of 


OYER THE HILLS 


123 


acrid pink, cut in the extreme of the fashion. 
Her figure was shapeless, and from the pale, mot- 
tled face her eyes looked out, vacant of all save 
some malign expression, that flickered into them 
every now and then as she talked. 

4 That is the Marchioness,’ said Dinah under her 
breath, for the lady had risen, and was moving 
past them down the room. 

4 That ! Good Heavens ! She is just like a 
toad,’ said Annie ; and indeed, when the lady 
paused for a moment close beside the two girls, 
Dinah noticed with a curious sense of repulsion, 
that the back of her hand — the hand that bore her 
wedding-ring — was marked with brown mottled 
patches upon the dull skin. 

Annie drew a deep breath when she had passed. 

4 He married for money, they say ; he might have 
done it cheaper than that. ’ 

4 She may be good,’ said Dinah. 

Annie laughed scornfully. 4 Yery ; she may 
be a saint, but she is just like a toad to look at ! ’ 

The crowd was beginning to lessen now, and 
people were going away. Lewis followed Lord 
Glarn when he left the ballroom. 4 May I have a 
word with you ? ’ he said, as they stepped into 
the corridor. 

4 Certainly ; what is it ? ’ The Marquis glanced 
at him for a moment, then turned to his servant, 
who waited at the door. 4 Drive on,’ he said ; 


124 


OVEE THE HILLS 


‘ I shall walk back to the inn. — Well, Campbell, 
what do you want ? ’ he asked pleasantly, using 
words that came naturally to one who was accus- 
tomed to being asked for favours. 

£ But a trifle, sir — a little handkerchief that I 
saw Miss Annie Fraser give to you a short time 
ago.’ 

The other man stopped short and looked at him. 
They had walked on about a hundred yards up the 
street — the broad market-place of Ubster. 

In the sky above them the stars were beginning 
to fade before the dawn ; the frost lay white upon 
the stones ; the silent houses were shuttered up, 
and their voices rang in the still air. 

£ It does not belong to you, ’ said Lord Glarn. 

£ Annie Fraser belongs to me,’ said Lewis. 

Glarn looked at him, then, with a slight smile, 
he handed him the little handkerchief. £ Ah, in 
that case I have nothing to say — here it is. May 
I advise you in future, Campbell, not to bring a 
lady’s name into discussion in a place where it 
may possibly be overheard,’ he glanced at the 
sleeping houses around them. £ I could give you, ’ 
he added, £ some more excellent advice on other 
matters, but you would not thank me. ’ 

£ I am not sure of that,’ laughed Lewis, whose 
ill-humour was gone in a moment. £ I have to 
thank you for good advice before now, sir. With- 
out your advice I should never have come here.’ 


OVER THE I1ILLS 


125 


‘ I am glad to hear it. You get on all right 
with old Jerningham ? ’ 

Lewis grimaced : ‘ Well enough — just now. 5 

‘ Well, be careful, nothing is worth a quarrel — 
especially with one’s own interests. That is wis- 
dom,’ said Lord Glarn. ‘ Now, I wish you good- 
night, or good-morning rather,’ and he walked 
away. 

Lewis met Annie in the hall when he was still 
holding the little handkerchief. It caught her 
eye at once. 

‘ Where did you get that ? ’ she asked. 

‘ From Lord Glarn,’ he answered. ‘ I am going 
to give it to Dinah. ’ 

Annie’s face fell. ‘ Don’t,’ she said. ‘How 
can you be so foolish all about a wretched trifle ! 
Give it to me.’ She took it from him. But she 
did not return it to Dinah. She locked it away 
when she reached her own room. Then she sat 
down and thought over the events of the night, 
smiling a faint, meditative smile. 

The door opened softly, and Dinah came in with 
a candle in her hand. When she saw Annie, still 
in her ball dress, sitting on the edge of the bed, 
she exclaimed, ‘ O child, I thought you would have 
been in bed by this time ! Are you too tired ? ’ 

‘ Ho,’ said Annie absently, ‘ only thinking.’ 

‘ Thinking ! at this hour ; it ’s nearly six o’clock. 
Go to bed, Annie. ’ 


126 


OYER THE HILLS 


4 What did you want ? ’ asked Annie without 
looking at her. Even her young face looked 
wearied and ghastly now. Dinah laid down the 
candle that was burning poorly in the morning 
light. She sat down beside Annie and took her 
hand. 

4 I wanted to speak to you, Annie. I thought 
perhaps you would allow me to, because we were 
friends at school, and you have no mother, and I 
am older than you. ’ Annie yawned. Dinah sat 
up straight and grave. 4 Lewis Campbell asked 
me to-night if you had told me anything about 
yourself and him. I told him that you had not. 
I have no wish, Annie, Heaven knows ! to force 
your confidence, but he is so young, he cares so 
much for you — you ought not to behave as you 
have done to-night if ’ 

4 If what ? ’ said Annie. 

4 If you have ever given him reason to suppose 
that you are fond of him,’ said Dinah. 

4 There is nothing between Lewis and me,’ said 
Annie quietly. 4 I can’t prevent him making a 
fool of himself if he chooses. I never said any- 
thing to encourage him.’ She looked at Dinah 
with dilating eyes, steadily, as a cat stares in the 
half-light. 4 He ’s no money. He ’d much better 
fall in love with you, Dinah. You could afford to 
marry him.’ 

Dinah rose with one of her sweeping, powerful 


OYER THE KILLS 


127 


movements and threw back the shutter. She 
stood for an instant overpowering Annie with the 
sudden dignity of her presence. ‘ Of course you 
know best,’ she said ; 6 1 shall never mention this 
to you again. I am sorry if I have alluded to 
what you did not wish to talk about. You must 
not think that I want to preach to you, Annie. 
I know the deceit — and jealousy— of my own heart 
too well to feel as if I could find fault with any 
one. You have never done anything half so mean 
as what I did just last night. ’ Annie looked at 
her curiously, but Dinah did not explain further. 

‘ I only thought I might have helped you, ’ she 
said. ‘ Forgive me. ’ She bent and kissed Annie’s 
soft, fair hair. ‘Goto sleep now, Annie, or you 
will be fit for nothing all day. ’ 

Annie did not go to sleep. She sat still when 
Dinah was gone, staring out at the lines of light 
that were creeping over the sea. 

c A toad,’ she said to herself, ‘ a toad. No won- 
der he looks as if he were dead. . . . And she 
had ten thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds round 
her neck to-night ! ’ 

Slowly she unfastened her own trifling orna- 
ments, looked at her wearied little face in the 
glass, then laughed as she turned away. 


CHAPTER XVI 


Jane Anne’s attitude to a baby was abject to a 
degree. She had, of course, all the good conven- 
tional ideas then prevalent about a mother’s love ; 
but, in her heart of hearts (had she ever had the 
courage to examine the feeling), instead of the 
proud exultant sense of possession and passionate 
love for her child, there was a deep dejection. 
She hung above its cradle, wistful and overwhelmed 
with responsibility. She lay awake at night tor- 
turing herself lest she should make some little mis- 
take about the care of it. It was, in fact, a terri- 
ble oppression to her ; and sometimes, when the 
servants had carried it off to the kitchen, if she 
went in and saw Phemie jigging it on a careless 
arm as she gossiped to a neighbour, or even ‘ the 
lass ’ dandling it in a masterly fashion while she 
made the toast with the other hand, and the baby 
cried out and crowed, and stretched its toes to the 
fire in delight ; the poor mother of it would envy 
their powers from the bottom of her heart. 

The child was named 4 Thomasina . 5 When 
Mr. Campbell had entered the date of her birth in 


OVER THE IIILLS 


120 


a neat small circle added to the family tree, lie 
did not take much further notice of her, and Jane 
Anne was thus left unassisted to grapple with the 
first responsibility of her life. 

The news of the child’s birth was received in 
the Jerningham household with astonishment. 
Dinah alone said anything kind. She was thank- 
ful that Lewis had not overheard her father’s ex- 
clamations when he first heard of it. She knew 
that some remarks Mr. Jerningham had uttered in 
his hearing about Jane Anne, once before, had 
made Lewis very angry. Her mother allowed 
Dinah to send some garments, of a finer quality 
than were likely to be got at Glarn, to the infant. 

‘ Though I think it ’s very foolish of you to be in 
such a hurry,’ she said. ‘ It may die off before 
the packet reaches her, and there ’s not likely to 
be another, so the things would just be wasted. ’ 
Dinah would have liked to have sent a cheque, 
but this she did not dare to propose. As for 
Lewis, he spoke very kindly about both his step- 
mother and the child. 6 I ’m glad it ’s a girl, ’ he 
said, ‘ then I can take care of her, and she will 
be a companion to my stepmother when I am 
away.’ 

But two or three weeks afterwards, as they sat 
at the breakfast table, when the post-bag came in 
and Mr. Jerningham had looked over its contents, 
he tossed a letter across to his wife. 


130 


OVER THE IIILLS 


4 It ’s from Jane Anne,’ he said, 4 begging for 
money already, I suppose.’ 

Dinah bit her lip. Lewis bent across the table. 
4 Did I hear you speak of my stepmother, sir ? ’ 
he asked. 

4 Oh, Mr. Jerningham is a little out of sorts this 
morning, ’ began his wife. Dinah sat silent. 

Jerningham puffed, he looked up from the letter 
he was reading, fixing his round eyes on the young 
man. 4 You did,’ he said ; 4 1 spoke of my niece.’ 

4 Of my father’s wife,’ said Lewis. His blue 
eyes glittered suddenly. 

4 And what the devil does it matter to me whose 
wife she is. I shall say what I please in my own 
house. ’ 

Lewis pushed his chair away from the table and 
stood up. 4 Mr. Jerningham,’ he said, 4 the lady 
may be your niece, but you forget her relation to 
me. My father’s wife, I can assure you, will 
never beg for money from any one, and it is not 
in my hearing that it shall be said. ’ 

4 D — n your insolence,’ said Jerningham. 
4 What do you mean by speaking in this way to 
me ? You ’ll not stay another day in my house, 
I can tell you — nor in my employment. You can 
go this very minute, you young idiot ! You ’ve 
thrown away the only chance you ’re ever likely 
to have of making money. Go home ! Go and 
live on your father in affluence ! With your step- 


OYER THE HILLS 


131 


mother and her baby ; but when you ’re in want 
again, don’t come begging from me.’ 

Lewis stood during this speech with his hands 
in his pockets, listening with a slight smile. Then 
he bowed to Mr. Jerningham. £ I leave your 
house at once, then, sir.’ Then turning to the 
women, ‘ I thank you for all your kindness, Mrs. 
Jerningham. Good-bye, and thank you. Good- 
bye, Dinah.’ 

‘ Can I help you ? ’ said Dinah, but Jerning- 
ham called out — 

‘ Sit still, Dinah ; be quiet. ’ ILe turned again 
to Lewis : ‘ Be quick and get out of my house ; 
and before you go, I may tell you that Gunn pro- 
posed yesterday that you should be taken on as 
junior partner next year. Perhaps you may re- 
gret now what you ’ve thrown away.’ He paused 
as if he expected Lewis to speak. ‘ Well, ’ he said, 
triumphantly, as the young man kept silence, ‘ do 
you care nothing for a chance like that ? ’ 

Lewis threw back his graceful head. 

‘ Hot one brass farthing, ’ he said, and bowing 
again to Mrs. Jerningham, he left the room. 

‘ Where are you going, Dinah ? ’ asked Mr. 
Jerningham, for Dinah had risen from the table. 

‘ I am going to see Lewis off,’ she replied. ‘ He 
is very careless. He will probably leave half his 
things behind him if I do not,’ She looked her 
father straight in the face. 


132 


OYER THE HILLS 


‘ Con ’ he began, but Dinah did not waver 

for a moment, and he knew the storm would have 
no effect. ‘ Go away then and hurry him off,’ 
he said, turning again to resume his breakfast. 

She found Lewis already busy with his packing. 
He gave a quick exclamation of pleasure as she 
came in. ‘ Believe me, Dinah, I ’m sorry this 
has happened, before you at least ; it was bound 
to happen some time.’ 

Dinah’s eyebrows were drawn together in a 
frown. She stood facing him, leaning on the 
back of a chair. 

‘ What are you going to do now V she asked 
abruptly. 

‘ Going away.’ 

‘ And then ? 5 

‘ Going home. ’ 

‘ And then ? ’ 

He shook his head. ‘ What I did before, I sup- 
pose— nothing — shoot rabbits ! ’ 

‘ Did you know,’ said the girl, speaking slowly, 
‘that the opportunity you have had here was,’ 
she paused, ‘ a very exceptional one ? My father 
very seldom will do anything like that. Most 
young men in your position would have kept it at 
any cost. ’ 

‘ I know that, Miss Jerningham.’ 

‘ And you threw all that up because of Jane 
Anne ? ’ 


OVER TIIE IIILLS 


133 


‘ I did. Ho you think I was wrong ? ’ 

‘ I think you were very foolish,’ said Dinah 
steadily. 

{ Shall I go back and beg your father’s pardon ? ’ 
‘ Would you if I said you ought to ? ’ 
i Yes, Miss Jerningharn.’ 

Suddenly she held out her hand to him. ‘ Ho, 
don’t do it.’ She began to pack up his things 
with the business-like speed and neatness that she 
inherited from Jerningharn. Lewis protested, 
but she paid no heed to him. When it was fin- 
ished, she turned to him. ‘ Good-bye, then, 
Lewis. Will you give my love to Jane Anne? If 
she ever needs me, I will come to her. Good- 

bye-’ 

Lewis looked after her as she left the room. 

‘ There goes a brave woman, ’ he thought ; ‘ she ’ d 
die for some man. ’ 

But he took his departure very lightly, thinking 
as the coach rattled out of Ubster that he would 
see Annie again all the sooner. He had not ex- 
pected to see her for months. He would not reach 
Glarn till late the next evening ; and the next 
day, if the fates were kind, he would walk up her 
garden-path and see her again. The thought of 
the future did not weigh on him at all. He was 
young and strong — was he not ? — self-reliant and 
proud ; and, oh ! there were a thousand things 
that he might do— if necessary. He would per- 


134 


OYER THE HILLS 


suade Annie to come with him and go to make his 
fortune in America. He had heard a lot about 
that of late from some of the young men of his ac- 
quaintance. With Annie he could do anything. 
He would see her now in a day. 

£ But a night and half a day . ’ He watched the 
white road unrolling itself before him as the horses 
raced along, down one slope, and up another, till 
the flat fields and the low moors were left behind 
them, and there began to rise in the distance the 
outline of the great mountains, blue, and sharp, 
and terrible, against the sky. 

‘ Here, here, Lewis ; see, here she is ! ’ cried 
Jane Anne, trembling, her voice choking. She 
opened the door of the west room and led him in. 
‘ The lass ’ was seated by the fire, holding the 
baby on her knee. 

c Oh, little sister ! ’ said Lewis, as the girl rose 
and put the child into his arms. He felt it strange 
enough, but for Jane Anne’s sake he tried to look 
pleased. The next moment a new thrill of affec- 
tion ran through him, as its velvet-soft, tiny hand 
closed over his finger, and it chuckled, delighted, 
as all infants are, to feel a strong arm. It was 
only a few weeks old, but wonderfully alert look- 
ing, with a curl of dark hair on its head, and wide 
open eyes. 

Jane Anne wept with joy when she saw Lewis 


OYER THE HILLS 


135 


so pleased (as in a few days he really was) with 
the little creature. She enjoyed watching him 
play with it, although, of course, she trembled 
when he tossed it towards the roof, and did not 
approve of the terriers being allowed to skirmish 
about it so freely : while Lewis as yet scarcely 
realised that this new weight also was to hang 
upon him in the future. 


CHAPTER XVII 


Long ago, when children wrote in copy-books, it 
was the custom to head the page with a moral 
maxim ; and no doubt Lewis Campbell as a little 
boy had frequently copied out in round hand the 
undeniable truth, then a favourite ‘copy line,’ 
that 4 Idleness is the mother of all the vices. ’ He 
was now about to put it to the proof. He begged 
his father to buy him a commission and let him go 
out to the war. He even murmured something 
about enlisting, but on that point Mr. Campbell 
was obdurate. What he wished was that his son 
should marry 4 some amiable girl with money, ’ as 
he very artlessly said. That would enable him to 
live on at Glarn, and would preserve the meagre 
dignity of the family intact. As to Lewis going 
abroad, it was not to be thought of. Mr. Camp- 
bell regarded the idea with horror, and would stop 
any allusion to it by saying it was 4 a last resource 
for the black sheep of a family,’ and out of the 
question for Lewis as his heir. 

4 Heir to what, sir ? ’ said his son during one of 
these conversations, which w r ere always fruitless 


OVEE THE HILLS 


137 


of good, and brought about nothing but angry 
feeling between them. ‘ Heir to what ? This old 
bleak house, and the graveyard and two fields ! 
I scarcely think a man need stay at home all his 
days in idleness for that. ’ 

‘ Lewis,’ said his father, assuming the stately 
manner that had so astonished Mr. Jerningham 
on his wedding day, ‘ I can have no further con- 
versation with you upon this subject. You know 
what my wishes have been. You have refused to 
accommodate yourself to them. You have thrown 
up an excellent position. I do not blame you for 
that ; you did right ; you acted as I should have 
desired my son to act ; but I beg that you will 
not speak of the inheritance of your fathers, how- 
ever poor it may be, in this way. The bourgeois 
family you have lately lived amongst may account 
for that. I would not, for my part, ’ he continued 
grandly, ‘ exchange those poor acres and the grey 
stones in the churchyard there for all Mr. Jerning- 
ham’s millions.’ 

4 Very well, sir,’ said the son ; 4 but you must 
remember that you have now a wife and a daugh- 
ter, as well as me, to support off “ those poor 
acres.” “ The grey stones” won ’t go very far 
with that ! ’ 

‘ You must marry.’ 

‘ Yes, sir, I mean to, as soon as I can.’ 

4 What ! ’ exclaimed Mr. Campbell, with a 


138 


OYER THE HILLS 


touch of anxiety in his voice. 4 1 trust, Lewis, 
that your choice is such as I may approve. ’ 

4 1 hope it is, sir. You know her already.’ 

4 I — I — who ? ’ said Mr. Campbell, hurriedly 
trying amongst their few female acquaintances to 
think of any 4 amiable girl of good family ’ with a 
sufficient dowry. The choice was small. He 
paused, waiting for his son to speak. 

4 Annie Fraser, sir.’ 

Lewis knew beforehand how the announcement 
would be received, but he had been scarcely pre- 
pared for the utterly blank expression of dismay 
on his father’s face. Mr. Campbell coughed, he 
swallowed quickly two or three times, he turned 
away his head and began to thrum on the arms of 
his chair ; then, as Lewis still sat silent, he turned 
to him again, his voice broken strangely with 
emotion. 

4 My son, my son,’ he said, 4 this is a sore day 
for me ! ’ 

4 But, father, I always thought that you liked 
Annie. ’ 

4 Poor lassie ! I know no ill of her. I like her 
well enough, but she is a Catholic ; and, oh ! 
Lewis, think of the stock she came of.’ 

4 But she is innocent of all that, sir ; it is not 
right, it is not just to blame the children ’ 

Mr. Campbell cut him short. 4 Do men gather 
figs from thorns , or from thistles grapes? Poor 


OVER THE HILLS 


139 


child ! I pray she may be kept from evil. I wish 
her well, but as a wife for my son I would 

rather ’ He paused, and the vanity of his life 

was forgotten for the moment as he added, ‘ I 
would rather ten thousand times that he married 
a crofter’s daughter who could neither read nor 
write, so she came of decent people that feared 
the Lord.’ 

Lewis left him without another word. He went 
to see Annie that evening. He had seen her sev- 
eral times before, and she had played with him 
and coaxed him, and been cold to him by turns. 
She would silence his most tender speeches by say- 
ing candidly, ‘ But you know, Loo, that is all very 
well, only at present, even if I were married to 
you — ’ here Lewis would open his mouth to speak, 
but before he could utter a word — 4 married to you 
openly , it would be impossible for us to live to- 
gether just now. I told you I couldn’t bear to be 
poor. Wait till you have a house of your own. * 

‘ What chance have I of that just now ? ’ 

£ Well, till you have, I can assure you, / ’m not 
going to live at Glarn with your stepmother, as I 
told you before.’ 

And so the fruitless argument would end in 
vows of love from Lewis and inscrutable silence 
from Annie. That evening he found her out at 
church. She had of late been unusually devout. 
She came in with shining eyes, with her service 


140 


OYEK THE HILLS 


book held to her heart. 4 Lord Glarn was in 
church, uncle,’ she said, having scarcely taken 
notice of Lewis at all. 4 I think in time he will 
be a good Catholic. ’ 

4 Since when have you become so devout, 
Annie ? ’ asked Lewis mockingly. 

‘ For about a fortnight,’ Annie replied with 
tranquillity. 4 It is never too late to mend.’ 

So time went on, the winter turned to spring, 
April to May, and matters seemed utterly at a 
standstill. 

One evening, late it was, in the twilight, Lewis 
had been fishing in one of the inland lochs, and 
was on his way home, when he met Lord Glarn, 
accompanied by two men, with whom he was al- 
ready slightly acquainted. They too had been 
fishing, and were on their way back to the Lodge. 

4 Back again, Campbell,’ called out Lord Glarn, 

4 like •’ 

4 A bad shilling. Yes,’ said Lewis quickly. 

4 Ah, quarrelled with Jerningham, I suppose ? ’ 

4 Yes.’ 

4 Well, it ’s a pity. In your place I ’d have let 
him bully me to any extent. ’ 

Lewis smiled, showing a row of teeth. 4 1 do 
not think you would have, my lord ! ’ 

4 Well, well, who knoivs ? What are you doing 
here — going home ? Oh, come back to the Lodge 
with us ; we want a hand at cards,’ he said. 


OVER THE HILLS 


141 


Lewis turned with them gladly. He was thankful 
to escape from his own company for an hour. 

The other two men walked ahead. One of 
them, Vere by name, was the Marquis’s cousin, 
and failing an heir, would be his successor — a thin, 
long-faced man, with the slightly battered look of 
one whose fortune has always been in expectation. 

‘ I 5 ve been losing a deuced lot of money , 5 said 
Glarn to Lewis, nodding at Vere. ‘ During these 
wet days we 5 d nothing to do but play. That 5 s 
my misfortune, you know, when I once begin I 
can’t leave off . 5 

‘ So I have heard , 5 said Lewis, for this failing 
was well known. As a younger man it had led 
the Marquis into difficulties, a quarrel with his 
father, till the thing had been patched up by a 
rich marriage. 

Report said the Marchioness was at that time 
dangerously ill. Annie had told Lewis they had 
offered masses for her recovery. He could not 
but wonder, as he now walked beside the man, 
what his feelings were, and how he could have 
left his wife if it were true that her illness was 
likely to prove fatal. Perhaps their thoughts had 
been simultaneous ; for Lord Glarn continued, 
‘ It 5 s the only thing that will drive other things 
out of your head— if you play deep enough . 5 

‘I’d be glad to do that? said Lewis. ‘I’ve 
had enough of my own thoughts to-day . 5 


142 


OVER THE HILLS 


‘ Something wrong V 

6 Everything, ’ said Lewis. 

Lord Glarn laughed. ‘ Well, that ’s something 
of my own case. We ’ll do our best to forget just 
now.’ 

‘ There won’t be much sport in playing with 
me,’ said Lewis ; ‘ I have nothing to lose.’ 

‘ You have what I would give a great deal to 
possess,’ said Glarn. 

Something in his tone made Lewis turn sharply, 
but they walked in the shadow of the wood, and 
he saw nothing. 

4 What do you mean ? ’ he asked. 

‘ Naboth’s vineyard,’ said the other, with a 
laugh. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


The Lodge stood alone in the deep woods of Glam. 
It was built on a piece of rising ground at one end 
of the loch, and no other habitation was anywhere 
within sight. 

The loch of Glarn was small, and remotely 
lonely. Its distinctive characteristic— the only re- 
spect in which it differed from a score of similar 
lochs hidden away amongst the woods and hills of 
the district — was that at one end, the end where 
the Lodge was built, there was a beach of white 
sand, like the sand of the sea, only so much whiter, 
that when the sun struck on it where it was drifted 
and piled up high about the roots of the old trees, 
it shone like driven snow. 

As they climbed the slight ascent to the Lodge, 
Lord Glarn turned and glanced behind him. 
‘ Ah ! ’ he cried, ‘ look at that ! ’ He stopped 
short, leaning on the gate, and looked down. The 
moon had just risen, and through faint wreaths of 
mist that crept along the edge of the loch the sand 
shone as if it had been heaps of seed pearl. 

4 Very fine,’ said Vere languidly. 


144 


OYER THE HILLS 


Lord Glarn looked and looked, as if he saw 
something wonderful. 4 Do you remember Aarons, 
Campbell ? ’ he asked at length, 4 that Jewish fel- 
low who used to go about a good deal with my 
father.? A fat man, always jesting. Well, I re- 
member some one once asked him — Heaven knows 
why ! — what he thought heaven would be like. 
And he considered the point for a few minutes, 
and then said, 44 To die drunk , and wake on the 
beach at Glam” ’ 

4 To die drunk by all means,’ laughed Vere. 

4 But Aarons was lucky if he ever woke in any 
place half as cool as the beach of Glarn. ’ 

4 It ’s damp here with the mist rising. Come 
in, Campbell,’ said the Marquis, turning away. 

They sat playing in the little hall that served 
for sitting-room, the candles flaring against the 
uncurtained windows. As a matter of course, 
Lewis staked every penny he was worth at the 
moment. He was always perfectly reckless about 
money ; and he had, alas ! too often done so be- 
fore. Things righted themselves : he had never 
yet owed more than somehow or other he was able 
to pay : such money as he had was his own after 
all, and he could do with it what he chose . . . 
and so on — the arguments with which from the 
beginning the gambler has excused himself. To- 
night he was unhappy, and he wanted excitement 
to stir his blood and make him forget. But at 


OYER THE HILLS 


145 


last he lost too much. He pulled himself up 
short. 4 That ’s my last halfpenny,’ he said, push- 
ing the slip of paper to which he had signed his 
name across the table. 

‘ Oh, go on, you ’ll win the next time, ’ said 
Yere at his elbow. 

4 1 can’t, ’ said Lewis, fixing his frank eyes on him. 
4 Of course, I can give you promises, but I ’d have 
nothing to pay them with, and I won’t risk that.’ 

4 Right, Campbell — quite right, ’ said Lord Glarn 
slowly, as he cut the cards. Then he raised his 
eyes : his pale face was quite unmoved, but there 
shone in his glance as Lewis met it a spirit awak- 
ened, mocking— at himself. 

4 1 ’m sorry to/spoil sport,’ said Lewis ; 4 go on 
without me — I wish I could.’ 

Yere laughed with a sneer under his smile. He 
too had no money, and his promises were blank 
paper, but he went on giving them. Glarn looked 
once more at Lewis. 4 Try again, Campbell,’ he 
urged; 4 1 ’ll play you for Naboth’s vineyard. 

I. ’ll ’ He paused, and drew his breath like a 

sob, as was his way when he got excited. 4 1 ’ll 
lay you ten thousand pounds against the house and 
lands of Glarn — and that’s three times its value 
any day. ’ 

He silently cut the cards, and laid them before 
him, and there crossed his face, as a shadow 
crosses water, a sudden shiver of excitement. 


146 


OYER THE HILLS 


4 Lands of Glarn ! Two fields,’ said Yere, 
watching Lewis. 

4 Done,’ said Lewis. He gave a single thought 
to his father’s words about ‘ his inheritance,’ but 
it was not his way to hesitate. He would not 
think twice. Had not Annie said to him, 4 You ’re 
poor, and so I can’t marry you ’ ? What did any- 
thing else matter then ? 

The clock above them struck a jarring note. 
Out of doors, in the still highland night there was 
not a sound. They played on. 

Half an hour later Yere called out, 4 By ! 

Naboth’s vineyard ’s yours, my lord ! ’ 

Lewis pressed his hand hard on the table. He 
did not speak. 

Lord Glarn turned to him with a smile. 4 So it 
is ! We ’ll settle this matter afterwards, Camp- 
bell. I ’ll give you a decent price for it, of course. ’ 

4 It ’s yours, sir, if ever it is mine. You ’ll owe 
me nothing,’ said Lewis, rising to his feet. 

4 Oh, chut ! ’ said Lord Glarn, 4 that ’s all non- 
sense. We ’ll settle about that later on. It ’s 
time we went to bed now if we don’t want to see 
the broad daylight. Come along, Yere. You ’d 
best take an hour or two of sleep before you go, 
Campbell. Go home after breakfast.’ His pass- 
ing eagerness had disappeared already. 

4 Oh, I shall go now; it’s not worth while 
going to bed at this hour,’ said Lewis. 


OYER THE HILLS 


147 


The candles were guttering in their sockets, the 
windows growing grey. Lewis refused to wait 
longer ; Lord Glarn came with him to the door, 
calling out after him, ‘ I ’ll come over and settle 
that affair with you to-morrow . 5 

He turned back into the house with the other 
men, and Lewis made his way stumblingly down 
the steep, narrow path that led from the door. 

He went at first slowly, and staggered like a 
drunken man. When he got down to the side of 
the loch, he sat down on the stump of a fallen 
tree, and looked about him, drinking in deep 
mouthfuls of the morning air, cold and fresh after 
the heated atmosphere of the lighted room. 

It was now about four o’clock in the morning, 
and as he sat there the indescribable loveliness of 
the scene pierced even his stupefied brain. 

The air was full of the scent of young leaves 
and the pungent sweetness of the bog myrtle that 
grew in the marshes by the shore. There was no 
wind, no sign of motion anywhere. High and 
clear like angels, the birds sang on unseen, all 
around him, in the trees and bushes ; and where 
the newly risen sun shone down on the loch, the 
white beach was scarcely earthly in its beauty, in 
spite of the simple light of morning. Anything — 
angel or spirit, vision good or bad — might have 
taken shape and walked towards him over that 
white sand, that might have been heaps of 


148 


OVEE THE HILLS 


seed pearl driven up to the dark edges of the 
wood. 

There, for a while, the young man sat stupefied, 
slowly revolving in his brain his own incredible 
folly. Every time that he looked up, it seemed, in 
the growing daylight, more impossible. How 
should he meet his father again with this upon his 
conscience ? He could not tell him. It would 
break his heart. He was good for nothing, and 
the only chance that remained to him was to go 
away. If he were away, the thing might never 
reach his father’s ears at all. He might die first 
— who knows — and so the debt would never be his 
to pay. At any rate, his father need know noth- 
ing of it. Annie ? And then, he knew not why, 
there came suddenly before him — not Annie with 
her alluring glances, not Annie who made his 
heart burn, and who (as she thought) could wind 
him round her finger like a thread of silk — but a 
vision of Dinah Jerningham with her straight look 
meeting his, her grey, steady eyes, her shield-like 
face. 

‘ She would despise me for ever if she knew,’ he 
said. 6 Oh, Annie, I cannot act this folly any 
longer. You shall come with me, or we ’ll part 
for ever.’ He rose, and walked out into the 
morning, holding himself erect, a sudden purpose 
in his eyes. 


CHAPTER XIX 


The lark was singing in his cage when Lewis 
walked up the little garden of the priest’s house : 
a sure sign that Annie was not in. 

‘It’s you, Lewis,’ said Father Fraser, turning 
in his chair as Lewis entered. The sight of the 
bent figure, and the feeble grasp of the flaccid 
hand, nearly made the young naan’s resolution 
falter. Lewis had observed an alteration in Father 
Fraser’s appearance as soon as he had come home, 
but to-day the change was more marked, for the 
yellow face had a drawn look of pain that was 
new, and made him look many years older. 

‘ I ’ve come to-day to bid you good-bye, sir.’ 

‘ Are you going back to Ubster, then, my boy ? ’ 
‘ No, Father, not to Ubster — much further. 
I ’m going to America. I have settled it at last 
with my father. He was very unwilling at first, 
but — but, in fact, sir, I have been very foolish. 
I ’ve been playing too high, and got into difficul- 
ties, and so I suppose he thinks that it is as well 
I should be out of harm’s way for a bit, and he 
has given his consent, so I sail next week. ^ 


150 


OYER THE HILLS 


The old man sat silent, then he said, 4 You 
breathe hard, Lewis ; you have something more 
to say ; you are excited. What is it, my son ? ’ 
He turned his blind face, saying, 4 Is it An- 
nie ? ’ 

4 Yes, oh yes, sir, I ’ began Lewis. It was 

all that he could do to repress the words that were 
on his lips, and add, 4 Would you allow Annie to 
come with me, sir ? ’ His hand trembled, he held 
his breath. Was it possible that, after all, this 
deception was going to come to a quiet end ? But 
Father Fraser shook his head. 

4 Ho, no, Lewis ; it cannot be. I like you well, 
but I shall never give my consent to that. You 
do not know her. She w r ould not do it. ’ 

4 But if I had her consent ’ 

4 No, no ; she is a Catholic, Lewis, and your 
father would never allow that, even did her own 
faith permit it. Have you asked him ? ’ 

4 1 have said something about it,’ Lewis ad- 
mitted unwillingly. 

4 And what did he say ? ’ 

Lewis was silent. The old man drew a long- 
sigh, a quick flush ran across his face. 4 1 know 
—I know— you would not grieve me by repeating 
it. He was right too. I, in his place, would 
have done the same. ’ He paused, and his voice 
sank. Then after a minute, Lewis, through the 
bubbling notes of the little bird’s song, heard a 


OYER THE HILLS 


151 


word or two, 4 Born in iniquity — my brother’s 
child. ’ 

‘ He was . . . also a priest, sir, ’ said Lewis. 

4 Yes, ’ said Father Fraser, with a flash of pas- 
sion that Lewis had never seen in him before. 

4 He was. I was the eldest. I was no priest 

then, Lewis. I — but Ah ! it is long, long 

ago.’ The sudden energy ended in a sob. He 
drew his hand away and covered his eyes. 

Lewis was ashamed to witness it. He rose 
softly and took up his cap to go. He would not 
say good-bye again. As he closed the door, the 
old man was still sobbing childish sobs, and Lewis 
heard between them one word, 4 Annie ! Annie ! ’ 

He walked quickly away. Annie, he knew, 
was in the little church. He would go and speak 
to her there. The door was ajar. Annie alone, 
in the cool silence, sat with her lap full of paper 
roses, before the statue of the Virgin, making a 
new wreath. 

‘ Annie,’ he called her name gently. He came 
up to her bareheaded, with the inherited respect 
for a place of worship, of which Annie showed no 
trace. She looked up and nodded and laughed. 

1 Come and sit here,’ she said ; then, looking at 
his face, 4 What is the matter with you, Loo ? ’ 
she asked. 4 Your face is all white and hard. 
What ’s wrong ?— Oh, bother those odious roses, 
they’re all falling to bits. There, Madam (ad- 


152 


OYER THE HILLS 


dressing the figure), no one will look in that cor- 
ner ; the dirty rose can go there. ’ 

4 Shall I tell you why I came— here ? ’ He 
glanced around him. 

4 Yes, why not ? Oh ! well, never mind, it ’s 
as good a place as any other, ’ she said. 

So, sitting down on the little bench opposite to 
her, he, lowering his voice, told her everything. 

Annie did not put in a single word till he had 
finished ; then she said, 4 So you haven’t even got 
Glarn left now, Loo. ’ 

4 Not even that — if it should ever be mine.’ 

4 Does your father know ? ’ 

4 No, no, Annie. Heaven forbid ! He shall 
never know if I can keep it from him.’ 

4 Then you mean that it would be only after his 
death ’ — Lewis winced at the coolness with which 
she spoke — 4 that you would sell it to Lord Glarn ? ’ 
4 1 mean that ; only, I would not sell it. It 
would be his anyhow. I told you so. ’ 

4 1 thought you said he offered to buy it.’ 

4 Of course he did. lie is an honourable man’ 
— Lewis did not look at Annie as he spoke. Her 
eyelids had flickered for an instant — 4 but I re- 
fused. I was fool enough to play on that condi- 
tion. He owes me nothing. If the house is ever 
mine, it ’s his next day. ’ 

4 And what did you tell your father then ? ’ 

4 1 told him the truth — so far as I could. I told 


OYER THE HILLS 


153 


him I had played rather deep— I ’d pay up all I 
could— the rest I would pay in time. I will. I 
asked him to let me go to America, and he has 
given his consent. Oh ! Annie,’ he leant forward, 
pushing the paper flowers aside, and took her 
hand in his, 4 I shall never again, I hope, have to 
speak only part of the truth. I shall end this 
now. I ’ll act a lie no longer. Come with me, 
Annie. My father will be angry, and your uncle 
will be grieved. I am sorry for them both, but 
I can’t do anything else. Come with me.’ 

£ Come with you, Loo ! What do you mean ? 
When ? ’ 

‘ Next week — on Tuesday. Are you not my 
wife, Annie ? ’ 

‘ Hush ! hush ! hush ! ’ She rattled the leaves 
loudly in her lap, and glanced over her shoulder, 
as if afraid that any one should hear. 

4 I should like all the world to hear ! ’ 

4 Remember your promise, Lewis ! ’ 

Lewis stood up. 4 Annie, I am going. Before 
I go you will either bid me good-bye — for ever 
perhaps — for years at any rate — or else you will 
give me your word to come with me. ’ Annie was 
silent. 4 Choose,’ he said. She looked up, and 
saw no yielding in his face. She laid her small, 
clinging hand upon his arm. 

4 1 would come with you, Loo, but how would 
it ever be managed ? Think of what your father 


154 


OVEE THE HILLS 


would say — he would never consent — neither 
would uncle — besides, we should need to be mar- 
ried twice over ; first in your church, and then in 
mine, for I ’ m a Catholic. ’ 

Lewis stamped his heel upon the pavement till 
it rang. 4 Married — we are married, Annie, as 
fast as two churches can marry us, if you sign that 
paper I gave you once. Have you got it still ? ’ 

Annie hung her head and made no answer. 

4 You said that you would do it,’ he went on. 

4 Perhaps,’ Annie interpolated. 

4 Well, I have done it ; you have as good as 
done it — you said you would. I want no better 
marriage. Sign that just now, and you are as 
much my wife as if you had been married by all 
the clergymen and priests in Scotland. I know 
enough of law for that. Do you think that I 
would act a lie over again even to please you?’ 

4 But I haven’t signed it,’ said Annie. 

4 You will ; you said that you would.’ 

4 Now, Loo, keep quiet. Well, even supposing 
I did, think how unpleasant it would be to go to 
your father and say, 44 1 have been married some 
time ago.” Think of the row. Think of what 
people would say ! ’ 

4 What do I care for what people would say ? ’ 

4 1 care,’ said Annie succinctly. 

4 Come with me, then, without telling any one ; 
they ’ll know soon enough when we ’re gone. ’ 


OYEE THE HILLS 


155 


‘ How could I come without every one know- 
ing \ 9 

Lewis considered. ‘ Well, Annie, you could. 
I don’t like it, but if you will have it so, you can. 
I ’ll start a day before they think I ’in really 
going. You can meet me somewhere along the 
shore. We’ll drive in the dark, and not a soul 
will know you on the road, and we ’ll be in Ubster 
the next day before the ship sails —easy to do it. ’ 

‘ How can I go miles along the shore in the 
dark ? ’ 

4 Oh, I ’ll come for you. We can go into the 
cave at Loom — no one ever goes there — and wait 
till it ’s dark, for an hour or two, and the horses 
can meet us on the road. The man won’t say a 
word if I pay him well. ’ 

Annie sat fingering the flowers. She looked up 
suddenly. ‘ How is the Marchioness ? ’ she asked. 

Lewis started. ‘ Great Heavens, Annie ! will 
you drive me distracted ? Can you not be serious 
for one moment of your life when both our future 
depends upon it ? ’ 

‘ / see nothing flippant in asking for a person 
who is seriously ill at any time ; but if I ’ve made 
you angry, I ’m sorry. I must go back to uncle 
now. I ’ll think over what you said.’ 

‘ Forgive me, Annie ; I am very rude— but you 
seemed to forget how much this thing meant for 
both of us. I don’t know how the Marchioness is 


156 


OYER TIIE HILLS 


to-clay. She was better yesterday when I saw 
Lord Glarn. He seemed in good spirits about her. ’ 

4 I must go,’ said Annie. She gathered up the 
remains of the flowers and moved to the door, but 
Lewis stepped in front of her. 

4 Pardon, Annie, but I must have your decision 
now.’ 

‘ Oh, nonsense, Loo, let me pass. Uncle will 
be wearying for me. ’ 

She laid her hand on the door, which was ajar. 
He closed it and stood against it, facing her, his 
arms folded. 4 I will not leave this until you an- 
swer me, Annie. ’ 

4 To-morrow,’ began the girl. 

4 Ho, just now, this very minute. It ’s all right 
about your choice, Annie. I don’t wish to force 
you into anything, only you must answer me 
now ; there is no time, and this is no matter for 
shillyshallying about. ’ 

Annie stood silent, crackling the paper leaves 
between her fingers. 

He watched her for a moment, and then bent 
down. 4 You won’t ; very well. 44 Since there ’s 
no hope , come let us kiss and part.' 1 ’ Good-bye, 
Annie. ’ 

But as his arm went round her, Annie caught 
hold of the front of his coat with one of her child- 
like movements, and clinging to it, sobbed out — 

4 1 ’ll come, Loo — I ’ll come. ’ 


CHAPTER XX 


The cave of Loom was accessible only when the 
tide was low. At high water the mouth of the 
outer cave was closed. When Lewis swung him- 
self over the rocks that screened the opening, it 
was then about five o’clock in the afternoon. 
Annie was not there. He sat down and waited 
for a few minutes, then a figure emerged from the 
shadows at his side. ‘Was I not brave ? ’ she 
said ; ‘ 1 really went a little way in by myself. 
There was a man shooting gulls along there, and 
I was afraid that he might recognise me. ’ 

‘ Oh, no fear ! No one will pass this way to- 
night ; at least, no one will come into the cave. 
Come along, Annie ; there ’s more light further 
in.k 

Annie followed him up the strait, dark entrance 
into the wider passage beyond. Then she stopped 
short. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘that’s what I cannot 
do — to crawl through that little hole in the rock, 
Loo. I once went in when 1 was a child, and it 
was horrible. ’ 

‘ Oh ! nonsense. We can’t stay here for two 


158 


OYEE THE HILLS 


hours— any one might come in. Let me go first. 
If I get through, you needn’t crawl ; it ’s not so 
low as you think ; it ’s light enough on the other 
side. ’ 

He made his way on his hands and knees, 
through the little opening, into the inner chamber 
— a small recess, which was by no means quite 
dark, for light filtered down from a crack in the 
rocks above and showed the white sides of lime- 
stone and the floor of sand. He called out to her 
cheerfully, and Annie wriggled herself through 
the opening with less difficulty than he had done, 
exclaiming with pleasure when she saw the fight. 
She wore a long cloak with a hood that concealed 
her face. Her feet were bare. 

‘ See,’ she said, ‘ I came with bare feet, so that 
if any oiie saw me in the distance they might think 
I was one of the girls gone to gather bait. I 
think I may put on my shoes and stockings now ; 
it will be dark when we come out. ’ 

‘ Oh yes ; no one will recognise you then.’ 

‘ Are you sure everything will be all right, 
Loo?’ 

‘ Yes, yes. The man with the horses will meet 
us at the cross-road on the moor by ten o’clock. 
We can wait here till then. They think I ’ve 
gone over to Edderty. They won’t expect me 
home early. Come, and let me put on your stock- 
ings, Annie.’ 


OYER THE HILLS 


159 


He knelt clown and took the little foot in his 
hand, and began to tie her shoe-strings. 

Annie shivered. ‘ Oh, I don’t like this, Loo. 
My courage is going away. I wish I could have 
done it at once. ’ 

‘Well, it’s only an hour or two. There! 
How the other foot ! ’ 

c How loud the water sounds out there ! ’ said 
Annie. 

‘ Yes, it will be nearly up to the mouth of the 
cave now ; the tide was running like a mill-race 
when I came up. Ho one can come in now. ’ 

Annie said she was cold, so he took off his coat 
and wrapped it round her feet, and sat looking up 
at the crack of light in the roof that had shifted 
now, and was sending wavering rays down upon 
the stones. 

They were talking about what they should do 
in Ubster when they got there next morning. 
Annie had arranged to have some small luggage 
sent on two days beforehand. 

‘ I think I will go and see Dinah Jerningham,’ 
she said, laughing. 

‘ Ho ; don’t do that, Annie,’ said Lewis quickly. 

She looked up, surprised at his tone. 

‘ Why not ? I ’ll tell her I ’m staying with the 
sisters at the convent there. She won’t know 
I ’m not.’ 

Lewis frowned in silence. 


160 


OYER THE HILLS 


‘ You will only have half a clay to spend there, 
Annie ; the less you ’re seen the better. W e can 
go on board the vessel in the evening ; besides, 
you’ll have to write and tell your uncle. You 
said you would before we sailed. ’ 

‘ Oh yes, yes, yes,’ said Annie impatiently. 

i And you are really doing all this for me, ’ said 
Lewis. ‘ Oh, Annie, I pray you may never re- 
gret it.’ 

‘ Look, look, the sun is setting ; that ray of 
light is turning red,’ she called, pointing up- 
wards. 

But at that Lewis suddenly stopped speaking, 
then threw back his head to listen ; at the same 
moment, with shower of spray and foam, a volume 
of water broke from the shadow at the end of the 
cavern, and rushed in a shallow wave almost to 
where they sat. 

There was a moment’s silence, then came the 
sound of the water sucking, sucking backwards, 
and with a huge, awful noise the wave broke 
against the rock and sobbed into the cave, running 
further up this time, soaking Annie where she sat. 

She caught at Lewis’s arm as he knelt before 
her, and at the instant the red light shifted and 
fell upon his face. When she saw it, Annie called 
out in a thin, horrible voice of fear, ‘ Oh, Lewis, 
what is it ? ’ 

For answer he jumped to his feet, and lifting 


OVER THE HILLS 


161 


her up bodily, scrambled over the stones to the 
back of the cave. 

‘ There,’ he said, and the natural sound of his 
voice reassured her, 4 you won’t get wet there, 
I think. We must wait until the tide goes out 
again, Annie.’ 

He strained his eyes in the gloom : then he left 
her and crawled along the side, stopped, and struck 
a light. It shone one moment before the match 
went out. The hole that gave entrance to the 
outer cave was under the level of the water now. 
Annie saw it too. 

6 1 thought the tide never rose so high, ’ she 
said. 

‘ Sometimes,’ he answered ; then, speaking 
quickly to change her thoughts, 4 Your feet are 
all wet, Annie ; let me wrap my coat about your 
knees. That ’s better. How lean against my 
shoulder, sweet, and have patience for half an 
hour. ’ 

Annie hid her face in silence. The light had 
disappeared now, there was only a glimmer from 
the long crack in the roof. The bursting sound 
of the waves had been succeeded by the quiet, 
regular lifting and falling of the water. Far away 
on the rocks that guarded the outer cave they 
could hear the rush of the incoming tide — and the 
noise of it was like a trampling army. Lewis 
whistled softly to himself. He chucked shells and 


162 


OVER THE HILLS 


pebbles into the water with his free hand ; the 
other arm was round the girl. 

4 Sit a bit higher up, Annie ; I don’t want you 
to get wet again,’ he said cheerily, breaking off 
his whistling. 

‘I can’t,’ said Annie, raising her head, 4 my 
shoulder is jammed against the rock already. ’ 

She felt Lewis tighten his hold of her, to raise 
her up a little, then below his breath he muttered, 
4 Great God ! ’ 

4 What ’s the matter, Loo ? ’ asked Annie in a 
whisper. 

He gathered her up against his breast, holding 
her as if she had been a child. 

4 Oh, what is it ? ’ she sobbed again. 

He bent his face over hers. 

4 It's a spring tide to-night , Annie. ’ 

4 Will the water . . . come right up here ? ’ she 
asked. 

4 Yes.’ 

4 When, Loo ? ’ 

4 In about a quarter of an hour if it goes on like 
this. ’ 

4 Shall we be drowned then ?.’ 

Lewis nodded. Then he said quietly, 4 You can 
climb up on my shoulder, Annie, then you won’t 
get wet for a whde. ’ 

Annie threw herself back on his arm and stared 
into his face, which she could now scarcely distin- 


OYER THE HILLS 


163 


guish in the gloom. Then she drew herself up 
and shrieked, her voice ringing shrill through the 
rocks. She clung with her arms about his neck : 
Lewis tried to soothe her in vain. 

‘ Oh, Lewis ! 5 she cried ; 4 I cannot die like 
this ! How can I ? How can I be choked and 
drowned by inches in this horrible dark ? Oh, 
help ! help ! help ! ’ 

Her voice rang wildly against the walls of rock 
— repeated in anguished echoes up and around 
them. 

The water surged and gurgled higher, and as it 
washed about her knees she shrieked again. 

Lewis tore her arms from his neck. He clam- 
bered on to the highest point he could reach, pull- 
ing her up after him. 

4 How,’ he said, holding her up to his heart, 
4 be quiet, Annie. Don’t drive yourself and me 
mad with folly like this. If the water rises much 
farther, you know there is no help for it . 5 

Annie was silent for a moment, her face buried 
on his shoulder, then she said, 4 Are you afraid, 
Loo ? y 

4 I ? no ! ’ said Lewis, with a little laugh. 

She heard his voice as usual, felt the beating of 
his heart, regular and strong : the arm that held 
her did not tremble. 

‘ If at were anything else ’ she went on. 

4 But to be choked like rats in a hole, here, in this 


164 


OYER THE HILLS 


fearful dark. I saw a drowned man once at 
school, Loo— years ago. I J ve never forgotten it. 
His face was all stiff and dreadful, and his fingers 
blue and crooked. Ah ! ’ 

A wave reached them and lapped against his 
knee. 

4 Raise yourself, Annie ; climb on my shoulder.’ 

But she called in his ear, 4 No, no, no, I shall 
be left here last then, to choke and struggle by 
myself in the dark. Don’t let me be left, Loo ! 
—promise.’ 

4 Yery well ; if you wish.’ 

4 Will you take hold of me and hold me down 
till I remember nothing more ? ’ 

4 Yes, my love, I will.’ 

He put out his hand in the darkness to feel how 
the water had risen. The stone just below was 
covered now. 

Both were silent, and Annie’s sobs grew less, 
when suddenly and again and again she shrieked, 
this time with a frenzy of horror, shivering and 
beating with her hands. 

4 Ah ! ah ! ah ! it's something crawling on my 
neck. Oh ! Loo — something wet and horrible.’ 

Lewis felt at her throat with his fingers and 
threw the little crab away. As it clung to his 
hand, he smiled to himself even then at the quiv- 
ering agony of Annie’s disgust. 4 Oh ! kill me, 
kill me now, Loo,’ she cried. 4 Do not let those 


OYER TIIE HILLS 


165 


awful things come up and crawl over me ! Oh, 
kill me with your warm hands ! ’ 

4 Be quiet,’ he said sharply. 4 Did I not prom- 
ise that I would when there was no more hope ? ’ 
Annie was silent for the next few minutes. The 
water kept rising, and she shuddered as it chilled 
her feet. 

4 Do you believe in God, Loo ? ’ 

‘ Yes, Annie.’ 

4 I don’t,’ she said. ‘ The kind of shadow of 
God that we pray to, goes away at times like this. 
It is all emptiness. There is none. If you think 
there is, why don’t you pray ? ’ 

‘ I have prayed. ’ 

‘ I didn’t hear you. ’ 

4 I did not speak aloud. ’ 

Annie raised her voice, 4 Oh , God ! God / God ! ’ 
she screamed, 4 come, if you are there ! Hear, 
Help ! Help ! I cannot die lilce this ! ’ The thin 
voice ran along the roof, and a wave burst at their 
feet, rushing up upon them foaming and cold. 
The spray choked her, the water drenched her to 
the skin. 

Lewis caught the little hands in his. 4 Now, 
my sweet, are you ready ? You ’re not going to 
be afraid, my lamb ! It won’t hurt much ; it will 
be all over in a minute, and I won’t let you go till 
the end. Be quiet, Annie ; be brave, be brave. 
Kiss me again, and be brave, little woman.’ 


166 


OYER THE HILLS 


4 When ? ’ Annie whispered, shivering. 

4 After the next wave,’ he said. 

They heard the thundering rush of the waves in 
the outer cave, then the whirling, sucking noise as 
the volume of water forced itself through the nar- 
row mouth of the rock. Annie hid her face . . . 
but this time the water only washed about their 
knees. Then, for the first time, she felt Lewis 
draw his breath hard ; his heart beat furiously. 
They spoke not a word, till the seconds, drawn out 
to indescribable length, had passed, and another 
wave came surging up the rocks. 

This time it welled slowly up about their feet, 
and drew back again without a sound. 

‘ The tide has turned, Annie.’ 

She did not answer, but relaxed her clasp about 
his neck, and sank from him with a long sigh. 


CHAPTER XXI 


It was near midnight when they came out of the 
shadow at the mouth of the cave, and the moon 
shone faintly in a clear sky. The tide, withdraw- 
ing every moment, was murmuring now in long 
shoals on the sands. The night wind, pure and 
cold, blew gently from the sea. 

Annie staggered up the bit of rocky ground and 
threw herself gasping on the grass. 

‘ Oh, the air ! ’ she called. 4 The blessed sky ! 
The moon, Loo ! See, see — the birds ! It ’s wide, 
and free, and dry land again ! ’ She spread out 
her hands upon the turf, plucking at the weeds 
and the small sea-pinks growing there, and she 
laughed wildly, looking in his face with her glit- 
tering eyes. 

‘ Come,’ said Lewis sternly, ‘ you must not lie 
there in the cold. You are wet through ; you are 
ill.; you do not know what you say.’ Annie did 
not heed him. He stooped and lifted her up. 
‘ Come, my love, we must go on. We cannot stay 
here. ’ 

Again Annie turned up her face. ‘ I am not 


108 


OYER THE HILLS 


your love/ she called, her voice ringing clear as 
silver in the solitary night. ‘ I am not your love. 
I love nothing but life — and this earth — and the 
wide sky. Oh ! the sun will rise to-morrow, rise 
and be daylight again, and I shall be alive. Alive . 
Oh ! I want nothing more. ’ 

She suffered Lewis to draw her arm through his 
and lead her on, seeming indifferent to the way 
they went. Her wet clothes clung about her, 
hampering her walk. Her head was bare, and 
her hair fell disordered on her neck. Once she 
stopped to wring the water from her skirts, and 
looked at him, as if she scarcely knew who spoke 
to her. 

So they went on through the quiet, silver night, 
going always inland, till they reached the road 
that led across the moor. Where the two roads 
met, Lewis stood and looked about him, but there 
was no figure in sight, no sound of hoofs to be 
heard. Margaret’s cottage rose dark and solitary 
about half a mile away. 

‘ Can you get as far as that, Annie ? ’ he asked. 

£ Come, come home,’ said Annie, pulling at his 
sleeve. 

‘ We cannot go home, my child,’ he said, speak- 
ing to her as if she had been a little girl ; ‘ you 
are wet through. You cannot walk farther. Let 
me carry you.’ She suffered him to lift her up, 
and he carried her slowly up to the cottage door. 


OVER THE HILLS 


169 


He knocked long before the old woman made 
any answer. Then she called out fearfully to 
know who was there, flinging open the crazy 
wooden door with a cry of surprise at the sound 
of his voice. 

He gave some hurried explanation, and half 
lifted Annie across the threshold ; but she drew 
back, clinging to his arm. 4 Oh, no ! ’ she cried, 
4 not in there. Let us stay outside — it is wide. 
Do not let us go in to the dark again ! ’ 

Margaret bent to the ashes on the floor and blew 
upon the smouldering sticks till the flame leapt up 
and blazed, filling the cabin with dancing light. 

4 See, Annie, it is dry and warm,’ said Lewis, 
and Annie let him lead her in. 

The old woman brought out some dry things of 
her own : she took off the girl’s soaking clothes, 
gave her a warm drink, and laid her down in the 
4 box ’ bed, heaping the coarse woollen coverings 
over her and muttering endearing Gaelic names. 
Annie’s eyes were half closed at first, and she let 
them attend to her without a word of protest, only 
she shivered as her delicate skin touched the rough 
blankets. 

4 Did you hear a man passing with two horses 
some time since ? ’ Lewis asked the old woman, 
and at the question Annie’s eyelids quivered. 
Margaret, whatever she suspected, had the art of 
simplicity. She told him with elaborate detail 


170 


OYER THE HILLS 


how the horses had waited nigh on two hours and 
a half. She had given the man a light for his 
pipe, but he was a Lowlander, and without a word 
of the Gaelic. 

Then spreading food and drink on her low table, 
she pressed Lewis to eat, and finally, having piled 
some fresh peats on the fire, she crouched herself 
down like a dog on a heap of bracken in the cor- 
ner. Lewis was overcome by exhaustion, the 
warmth made him drowsy after having been chilled 
through : he sank back where he sat by the fire, 
and in a few minutes he slept profoundly. But 
Annie did not close her eyes. 

The warmth and silence had quieted her. She 
stretched her limbs, moved her head to a more 
comfortable position, and pushing the wet hair up 
upon the pillow, and lying flat upon her back, she 
gradually grew calm again. 

Within the hut the red light flickered noise- 
lessly. Annie knew every object in the miserable 
room, she had so often been there before, but 
now her eyes wandered lovingly over it all. The 
heart of the fire that glowed upon the earthen 
floor ; for there was no fireplace, and only two 
stones held the brands together, the smoke rising 
up to a hole in the roof that served as chimney. 
The blackened wooden dresser with two plates and 
a china cup (the cup had a wreath of rosebuds at 
its edge she knew ; many a time she had drunk 


OYER TI1E HILLS 


171 


from it as a child). The copper jug that stood 
behind the door : she noted everything — for did 
not all these things belong to human existence ? 
This was life — under what conditions, for the mo- 
ment, she did not care. Then the fire died down. 
She heard the starlings twitter in the wall, and 
her heart laughed. She looked at Lewis, mar- 
velling that he could sleep : she did not wish for 
anything at all, not for rest or slumber, but only 
just to know for certain that she was alive in the 
cheerful world again. 

The smoke ceased to rise as the fire grew low, 
so that through the hole in the roof she saw a 
patch of sky in which the stars were marching 
overhead. There in the quietness of night the 
girl’s heart lay open like a book. 

A sleepless night in deep stillness, when no dock 
strikes the hour, is long enough to lay out the 
plan of a lifetime— to reveal the present, review 
the past, or forecast the future. 

Ah ! there comes to all of us, unaware, ‘ like a 
thief in the night, ’ a day of judgment, an hour 
when the ways part to right and left, up or down ; 
and as Annie lay there, she made her choice. 
What she desired in life, what henceforward she 
would strive to get, was what, after all, she had 
always valued most. In the shock of her terror, 
against that blackness of darkness that a few hours 
ago had threatened to swallow her up, out of the 


172 


OVEE THE HILLS 


living world into the pit as it seemed— there blazed 
up by contrast, radiant, all the possibilities of life. 
Yes, even for her, if she took hold of it, money 
and rank, ‘ houses and lands, ’ gaieties, luxuries, 
the admiration that should satisfy her vain desires, 
the thousand and one enrichments that make ex- 
istence brilliant. That no lure might be wanting, 
the Tempter as he leaned over the girl that night, 
stooped to show her fine clothes, dainty living, 
jewels. 

And once, before he triumphed, her good angel 
spoke — but the voice was low — telling her of a 
life led with the man she had promised to love, 
the man she did love. A life that could probably 
never be anything but quiet and poor, with love 
and honour and faith : with a round of simple 
duties to husband and children : with peace at 
heart . . . but the argument was faint, and the 
soul that heard it turned away. 

A stick dropped from the hearth, sending a 
blaze for a moment over the room, and Lewis with 
a start awoke, and lifted his head to listen, for 
through the morning stillness came the sound of 
horses’ hoofs. Annie too raised herself on her 
elbow, and their eyes met. She held her finger 
to her lips ; steps came across the grass ; then the 
crazy door was shaken as some one rattled on it 
with a riding whip. 

Lewis sprang to his feet, motioning to the old 


OYER THE I1ILLS 


173 


woman not to undo the door. She called out to 
know who was there, and the reply came low but 
distinct — 

4 The Marquis of Glarn. ’ 

Lewis pushed her aside. lie opened the door 
and stepped out into the grey morning light. 

A carriage, with two men beside it, was drawn 
up on the road at some distance. Lord Glarn 
stood alone upon the threshold. He was very 
pale, yet he smiled as he spoke — the rare, sweet 
smile that had fascinated Lewis from his boyhood. 

4 Is Miss Fraser in there ? ’ he asked. 

4 Yes,’ said Lewis, standing in the doorway — he 
had drawn the door close behind him — 4 she is. 
May I ask what you want with her ? ’ 

4 1 wish to speak a few words with her if I may. ’ 

4 On what subject ? ’ 

4 That concerns her and me, ’ said Lord Glarn. 
Then, changing his tone, he looked at the young 
man very kindly : 4 Good Lord, Campbell ! Are 
you such a fool as to wish to raise a scandal over 
the whole countryside about the girl you love? 
Yes, yes ; I know all about it. She was coming 
with you to marry you — of course, of course. 
Bad enough as it is. But let her go back to her 
uncle now— tell a few firm lies, and pay the man 
who was to have driven you to hold his tongue — 
and the whole matter will be hushed up.’ 

4 But I have no wish, sir, to 44 hush the matter 


174 


OYER THE HILLS 


up. ” Annie Fraser is mine ; I told you so be- 
fore. She shall not go home. She has given her 
word to come with me, and nothing but death or 
her own desire shall part us now.’ 

Glarn smiled again at the hot words. 4 That 
being the case,’ he said, 6 you can have no objec- 
tion to my hearing Miss Fraser’s decision from her 
own lips. I must take back the message to her 
uncle. He is an old man, and such a grief will 
strike him very hard. He fears now that she has 
been drowned, for the last thing he heard of her 
was from a man who saw you together at Loom 
yesterday evening — he was shooting gulls on the 
shore.’ 

‘ And you ? ’ demanded Lewis. 

‘ Oh, I happened to be at Edderty at the time, 
and 1 heard the news. I met the man returning 
with your horses, and from what he told me I con- 
cluded ’ 

‘ It was not my wish to make any secret of the 
matter,’ said Lewis. 

‘No ; it is difficult to keep anything a secret, 
not always wise,’ said the Marquis. He stood 
tapping the point of his boot with his riding switch, 
then looked up. ‘ Again, may I ask you to allow 
me to speak a few words with Miss Fraser ? ’ 

‘ Go in,’ said Lewis ; ‘ I shall wait here until 
you have heard what she has to say.’ He called 
out to the old woman in Gaelic, ‘ Come here, Mar- 


OVER THE HILLS 


175 


garet. Lord Glarn will speak to Miss Annie 
alone. ’ She came out curtseying to the Marquis, 
who stooped his head under the low doorway and 
went in. 

Annie had risen from the bed, and hurriedly put 
on her dress. It was still unfastened at the throat, 
and her pale hair fell all about her neck. But she 
came forwards holding out her hand to him with 
her usual inimitable grace and composure. 

‘ I was nearly drowned last night, 5 she said, 
speaking with an innocent tremble in her voice, 
‘ and Lewis brought me here. I could not walk 
another step. My uncle is dreadfully anxious, 
I 5 m afraid. You have come from him ? 5 

The man looked at her as she stood before him 
in the dim, increasing light that fell upon her 
through the open door. She did not blush, or 
look in the very least confused. Her eyes were 
limpid, her cheeks pale, as if she still suffered from 
the shock of the night before. 

‘ Can I take you home now ? I have a carriage 
out there waiting, 5 he said. Annie was silent. 
He came a step nearer and took her hand in his. 
‘My dear young lady, 5 he said, ‘you have been 
very foolish. Your uncle is an old, feeble man, 
and unable to come himself, or else I should never 
have presumed to follow you. Will you allow me 
to speak frankly to you, and say that you are, 
both of you, by persisting in this folly, simply 


176 


OYER THE HILLS 


throwing away every chance in life. You are 
both very young ; you scarcely realise what you 
are doing. ’ 

Still Annie stood hesitating. Through the half- 
open door she could see Lewis standing waiting in 
the dim light : a young heroic figure : his head 
turned aside, showing the fine lines of throat and 
shoulder that made the chief beauty of the man : 
he looked, for the moment, like a young Apollo : 
she remembered his tenderness to her in her fright, 
and (quality most dear to woman) his own per- 
fectly unconscious courage. 

As Lord Glarn spoke, she shook her head slightly, 
but her eyes were cast down. He, letting her 
hand fall, was silent too for another moment. To 
himself he said inwardly, ‘ She won’t do it. Can 
I stoop to this ? ’ And then, in so low a voice, 
that even had Lewis been listening he could not 
have heard, he uttered the words — 

‘ My — wife — is — dying. ’ 

Annie took no notice of what he said. One 
would have supposed she did not hear. She ap- 
peared to be lost in thought. Then, after a min- 
ute, she raised her face and looked at him. ‘ I 
will come back ... to my uncle. I do not wish 
to vex him,’ she said. ‘ Will you be so kind as to 
wait for a moment while I get on my cloak ? ’ 

She threw the hood over her head, smoothing 
back her disordered hair, then she stepped out of 


OYER THE HILLS 


177 


the door. The Marquis signalled to the carriage 
to drive up. Lewis came forward to meet her. 

4 Well, Annie, have you answered Lord Glarn, 
and told him why you are coming with me ? ’ 
His eyes were full of hope ; he thought this horrid 
deception had come to an end at last. Annie put 
her hand on his arm. 

4 1 am going back to my uncle, Lewis,’ she said 
sweetly. 4 He is such an old man. He thinks I 
was drowned. Now, this would nearly kill him. 
I cannot break his heart. I was foolish. I was 
mad, I think, but I am going home.’ 

4 What do you mean ? ’ asked Lewis, in a voice 
so stern that the girl shrank before him— only for 
an instant. The truth in his eyes went piercing 
through and through her, as a sword might stab 
through silk. Annie did not attempt to say an- 
other word. She very seldom wept ; but as she 
stood there between the two men, her eyes filled 
suddenly up with tears. They rolled down her 
cheeks unheeded as she said again — 

4 1 am going, Lewis. Good-bye.’ 

4 Do you know what that means, Annie ? It 
means that if you leave me now, you leave me for 
ever.’ Again his eyes, it seemed, would pierce 
her through and through. Glarn drew a deep 
breath. He bit his lip waiting for her reply. 

< Y es — X — know,’ said Annie, with a pause be- 
tween each word. Then, still with her inimitable 


178 


OYEE THE HILLS 


composure, she dried the tears from her face, and 
turning to the Marquis, she laid her hand on his 
arm. Still Lewis did not move. He watched her 
step across the grass, saw her enter the carriage. 
She turned her face to him once as she drove 
away ; it was the face of a martyred innocent, 
pale and grave. Lord Glarn mounted his horse 
and followed, riding some little distance behind. 
Twice he shrugged his shoulders, as a man might 
do who has seen some nauseating sight. ‘ IIow 
could I ? How could I ? ’ he said ; and then 
added aloud, ‘ But we needn’t pretend to fine taste 
when we would bargain with the devil . 9 

As for Lewis, he stood, where they had left 
him, motionless, as if stricken into stone, till the 
sound of wheels had died away along the road. 
Then, without a groan, he sank suddenly down on 
the rude settle by the cottage door and buried his 
head in his arms. The old woman came towards 
him ; but after looking at him for a minute, as if 
conscious of his misfortune, she crept away. 

lie heard the slow dropping of the little spring 
that trickled through the grasses by the door ; 
each drop seemed to fall upon his brain. A flock 
of finches flew across the moor, and settled, flut- 
tering on the stones beside him. He heard their 
sharp little calls to one another. When at last he 
lifted his head, he gazed about him stupidly, like 
a man in a dream. The sun had risen ; the broad 


OYER THE HILLS 


179 


daylight filled the world. Like a white ribbon, 
there on the horizon lay the road along which 
Annie had driven away. lie slowly rose to his 
feet and looked up into the sky. 

‘ Great God in heaven/ he said, ‘ can such 
things be ? ’ 


CHAPTER XXII 


4 Look at that ! Look at that ! ’ said Mr. Jerning- 
ham, thrusting a note into Dinah’s hand. They 
were at breakfast, one bright morning, a fortnight 
after the date when Lewis had meant to leave 
Glarn. Dinah took the note, and read it through 
deliberately before she spoke. It was written in 
a very weak, scrawling hand, dated 

‘ Glarn, 8 th May. 

‘My dear Aunt,’ — Jane Anne had written, 
‘ You must have wondered at my long silence, but 
I am in great trouble. Mr. Campbell had a para- 
lytic stroke last week, the very day before his son 
Lewis intended to have started for America. A 
report reached us suddenly that Lewis had been 
drowned in one of the caves on the shore, where 
he had been seen late on the previous evening, and 
the agitation must have hastened my husband’s 
illness. In my anxiety I have overstrained my- 
self, and for a week past I have been so ill that I 
could do nothing. ¥e have very inefficient ser- 
vants ; there is no one but Lewis — who, of course, 


OYER, TIIE HILLS 


181 


has given np all thoughts of leaving home just now 
— to attend to anything, and I fear that baby is sadly 
neglected. W ill you send me some assistance ? ’ 

Dinah raised her eyes to her father as she fin- 
ished reading this. Mr. Jerningham was walking 
up and down the room with his hands in his pockets 
blowing with indignation. 

‘ There, there, there ! That ’s the end of it, as 
I always knew it would be, 5 he went talking on. 

4 "What did the old idiot mean by marrying again 
at his age — goes off in a fit — leaving the wife and 
children to beg. I always knew it ! I told you 
so. Confound them ! Confound them all ! What 
has an old dotard to do with marrying and leaving 
other people to look after his children ? Children ! 
Baby ! An elderly scarecrow like Jane Anne — 
like an old umbrella — with a baby ! Let her look 
after it herself. I ’m not going to have anything 
to do with it. I ’ll send her a five-pound note, 
and tell your mother to find a decent woman, and 
send her up to nurse them all — Campbell, and she, 
and the baby too— and that ’s more than they 
deserve.’ 

4 1 must go myself,’ said Dinah. 

4 What f ’ 

She did not repeat the remark, but helped her- 
self to toast, and went quietly on with her break- 
fast. 


182 


OYEE THE HILLS 


Jerningham had stopped in his tramp about the 
room. He stood before Dinah as if expecting her 
to speak, then dropped into his seat, and began to 
eat again. Mrs. Jerningham took up the subject 
in her turn. 

4 Well,’ she said, glancing dubiously at her hus- 
band, 4 if Dinah did go, it ’s fine weather now. 
She needn’t stay long ; it could do no harm ; it 
would be cheaper than sending a nurse from here. 
We could get one for her later on if necessary, but 
by that time very likely the old man will have 
gone off. Jane Anne never needed much fuss 
made about her, and the servants can look after 
the child.’ 

4 Dinah is not to go near them,’ said Jerning- 
ham. 

4 It will cost ’ began his wife. 

Dinah interrupted her. Having finished her 
breakfast, she turned squarely on her father, with 
a resolution and finality in her voice compared to 
which his was mere bluster. 

4 1 shall go to Glarn immediately, papa. I ’m 
sorry you object, but I must go. Jane Anne may 
be dying.’ 

4 Let her die, then. ’ 

4 Hot without care at any rate. I must go. ’ 

4 And after that impertinent young fool tried to 
browbeat me about her, 44 his father’s wife,” for- 
sooth. You ’re not to go, Dinah. I forbid you.’ 


OYER THE HILLS 


183 


‘ I ’m sorry to have to displease you, papa. I ’m 
going. ’ 

Mr. Jerningham burst into an angry tirade that 
would have reduced most daughters into helpless 
acquiescence and weeping. Dinah, however, had 
inherited several of his own qualities ; and the 
end of it all, when he had exhausted every adjec- 
tive he dared to apply (for he was somewhat in 
awe of the girl, after all), left her absolutely un- 
ruffled. 

‘ Will you tell Sam to go and make inquiry 
about the coach ? ’ she said when he drew breath. 

c D — n it ! D— n it ! I will not.’ 

Dinah rang the bell and gave the order. 

‘ And I shall want some money too,’ she said, 
4 in case Jane Anne requires things when I get 
there.’ 

‘ Do you think I ’m going to be sponged on for 
money in this way by every sick person in the 
country! I’ll give you five pounds, I told you, 
and not a shilling more shall she get from me for 
doctor’s bills or funeral expenses — though they 
leave the old man above ground for a fortnight. ’ 

‘ Oh, there may be a wright in the neighbour- 
hood who could do it. They knock up a coffin 
very cheap,’ said his wife soothingly. 

Dinah, with a massive disregard of these re- 
marks, was now opening her own letters. 

Mrs. Jerningham began to read snatches from 


184 


OYER THE HILLS 


the newspaper : 4 Two mad dogs killed near Wind- 
sor ’ (her selection was incongruous ; she read 
everything in the same tone). 4 Illness of the 
Marchioness of Glarn. We regret to state that 
the illness of the Marchioness of Glarn is very 
serious. She now lies in a critical condition at her 

residence in Square. Her medical advisers 

have small hopes of her recovery.’ 4 Balloon acci- 
dent at Vienna — narrow escape of three children.’ 

Dinah had not heard one of the items. 

4 1 wonder if I shall find Annie Fraser at home 
when I go to Glarn,’ she remarked, lifting an un- 
opened letter from Annie. She gave an exclama- 
tion of surprise as she read. 

4 What is it ? Is she going to be married ? ’ 
asked Mrs. Jerningham. 

4 No,’ Dinah answered ; 4 it is about her uncle, 
poor old man ! ’ 

4 What, has he had a fit too ? Those things 
often come in doubles,’ said Mrs. Jerningham. 

4 No, he has not had a fit,’ said Dinah, smiling ; 
‘at least, Annie does not mention that, but she 
says that he has been ailing for a long time, and 
that now his illness has become so serious that an 
operation will be necessary, so they are going to 
London.’ 

4 London ! ’ echoed Mrs. Jerningham. 4 What 
are they doing that for ? Who ’ll pay for that , I 
should like to know ? An old man too ! An ex- 


OYER THE HILLS 


185 


pensive operation probably, and he ’ll have noth- 
ing to leave. I never knew how that girl got her 
dresses, I ’m sure.’ 

‘ Annie says that they will be in Ubster for a 
day on their way south, but I ’m afraid I shan’t 
see her if I go to Glarn. ’ 

Mr. Jerningham got up angrily and left the 
room. Dinah continued to discuss her journey 
with her mother, planning the things which she 
was likely to need to take with her to Glarn. 

‘ You must ask your father for the money your- 
self, Dinah ; I won’t,’ said Mrs. Jerningham as 
they left the breakfast table. 

‘ Yes, certainly ; I ’ll go now,’ said the girl. 
‘ You can tell Thomas to go and inquire about the 
coach.’ 


CHAPTER XXIII 


The coach rattled along the broad street as they 
spoke, and Mrs. Jerningham cried out, 4 Why, 
there ’s Annie Fraser at this moment. She waved 
her hand as she passed ; they must be going to 
the inn.’ 

4 So it is ! 5 said Dinah, who had caught sight 
of Annie’s little pale face, as the coach drove past 
the house. 4 She must have left on Friday. I 
shall go along and see them as soon as they have 
had time to settle down a bit. Poor Annie ! what 
a long journey to take with that blind old man ! ’ 

Later in the afternoon Dinah went out with the 
intention of calling at the inn. It was impossible 
for her to leave for Glarn until the following day. 
She met Annie in the street when she was coming 
out of a shop. Annie had an anxious, strained 
look that made Dinah think her anxiety about her 
uncle must be great. Her lips were tightened, 
and her face was pale. She replied to Dinah’s 
greeting absently. 

4 Yes, it ’s very sad about Mr. Campbell ; he ’ll 
get over it though, but they think your cousin is 


OYER THE HILLS 


187 


dying. Oh, I had no time to go and see them be- 
fore I came away. I had so much to do. I ’ve 
left uncle at the inn.’ 

Dinah was standing by the dressmaker’s door. 
It was a shop, the only one of any importance in 
Ubster, where she knew that Annie got her own 
dresses. 

‘Come in with me,’ said Dinah, ‘and then I 
can walk back with you. ’ 

‘ Ho, no,’ said Annie hastily ; ‘ I can’t, I ’ve 
got some things to buy for uncle. Go home, 
Dinah, and I will come and see you there. That 
will be better than your coming back with me. ’ 

Dinah saw that she was annoyed, so she did not 
press the point, but went into the shop and left her. 

When she had disappeared, Annie drew a deep 
breath of relief. ‘ I hope that woman didn’t see 
me,’ she said to herself. Then she shook her veil 
down over her bonnet, looked up and down the 
street to make sure that no one was watching her, 
and turned down a byelane that led into a dark 
alley belonging to the old part of the town. 

It was very dirty ; she had to pick her way 
daintily along the uneven pavements, that were 
strewn with all kinds of refuse. She went along 
the narrow close for a short distance. At one 
end there was a pawnbroker’s sign, the three 
golden balls, the only bright spot in the sordid 
place. Before she came up to it, Annie stopped 


188 


OYER THE HILLS 


at a little print shop and bought a newspaper. 
She stood inside the door and lifted her veil, while 
her hands trembled so that she could scarcely open 
the sheet. She glanced her eyes over the first 
columns, then she laid it down again and walked 
out of the shop. ‘ Hot } r et ; I must do it then,’ 
she thought, and taking a little parcel out of her 
muff, she walked up the dirty staircase that led to 
the pawnbroker’s door. 

An old man with a sly, smeared face took the 
parcel from her, going to the window to examine 
its contents in the light. All Annie’s little orna- 
ments were there — a ring or two that had belonged 
to her mother. He smiled at her, peering up at 
her face under the veil, and shook his head. 

‘ I want to sell them,’ said Annie. ‘ How much 
will you give me ? ’ 

4 Thirty shillings maybe.’ 

‘ Oh, very well, that ’s no use, ’ she answered, 
stretching out her hand for the parcel. 

She had hoped that he would offer more, but he 
handed them back to her, and watched her turn 
away without a word. 

She went to two other shops with even less re- 
sult, and now the afternoon was wearing on. ‘ I 
may get more for them in London, or something 
may have happened by that time, if I can only get 
her to wait for another week. ’ 

She took a note out of her pocket, and re-read 


OVER THE I1ILLS 


189 


it, though she knew its contents pretty well by 
heart. It was from the very dressmaker’s shop 
that Dinah had asked her to go into along with 
her, curtly intimating that as Miss Fraser’s bills 
had run up for so long, and were still, after re- 
peated applications, unpaid, they would now take 
legal proceedings. Annie crushed it angrily in 
her hand. 4 And to think how much money Dinah 
has ! ’ she reflected. 4 If I can only get the 
woman to wait, but I dare not go in. I must 
write after I get to London. ’ 

After she left Annie, and had finished her inter- 
view with the dressmaker, Dinah had gone home. 
She knew that her father was in his study at that 
hour, so she went straight to the door. At the 
threshold she paused for a moment, just as Jane 
Anne had paused years before, when she went 
into that room to inform Jerningham of her mar- 
riage. But Dinah’s pause on the threshold was 
not of irresolution ; it was merely to discover the 
best means of attack. Jerningham sat at the 
great writing-table with a pile of letters beside 
him. Dinah came quickly across the floor and 
stood just behind his chair. She then said in the 
most matter-of-fact tone — 

4 1 ’ve come for the money, papa. Can you 
give it to me now ? ’ 

4 What money ? ’ said Jerningham, without rais- 
ing his head or laying down his pen. 


190 


OYEE THE HILLS 


‘ The money I must take with me to Glarn.’ 

4 1 told you I ’d give you five pounds ; you can 
ask your mother for that. ’ 

‘ I shall want twenty, papa ; at least, twenty 
will do just now.’ 

‘ D’ you suppose I ’ve got twenty pounds ready 
at any moment ? ’ 

‘ You can give me a cheque.’ 

He laid down his pen at last. ‘ Look here,’ he 
said, 4 1 told Jane Anne when she married, that 
she might take her own way if she chose to make 
a fool of herself, but that she needn’t look for help 
from me. I told that young fool Lewis that I 
wouldn’t forget his insolence to me in a hurry. I 
told you that I ’d give the woman five pounds, 
and that’s all she ’ll get out of me to bury her 
husband, herself, and the baby too, so you may 
go away, Dinah.’ 

Dinah stood still behind his chair. 

‘ There, there, I ’m busy, I have to go out to 
the office now. Go away. ’ 

She did not move. 

With a quick oath, Jerningham pushed away 
his chair and turned to face her. Dinah, with a 
manner, for the moment, curiously like his own, 
held out her hand. 

‘ Give it to me now, papa, before you go out.’ 

The office boy knocked at the door and re- 
quested Jerningham’ s immediate attendance. 


OYER THE HILLS 


191 


‘There you are,’ lie exclaimed, scribbling the 
cheque, and tossing it towards her. ‘ Put that in 
my desk again, and confound them all.’ He 
slapped the cheque-book down upon the table, and 
hurried out of the room. 

‘ There ’s a lady to see you, Miss, ’ said the boy ; 
Dinah, without stopping to replace the cheque- 
book in the desk, stepped out into the hall to wel- 
come Annie. 

‘ Oh, just come in here,’ she said. ‘ Father has 
gone out. Wait for a minute or two, Annie; I 
have something important to do.’ 

She sent the boy off to get the cheque cashed 
for her immediately, and left Annie in the library, 
while she ran upstairs to tell her mother that she 
had got the money, forgetting entirely that the 
cheque-book was left on the table. 

Mrs. Jerningham had some small reason for de- 
taining her, so that she was away for about five 
minutes. When she came down again, Annie was 
calmly standing by the window putting two bits 
of paper into her purse. One of them was a long, 
narrow shp. She shut the purse with a click as 
Dinah came in. Her eyes were brighter than 
usual. 

‘ Are you really going to Glarn, Dinah ? ’ 

‘ Yes ; I’m going to-morrow.’ 

Annie sat down on the edge of Jerningham’s 
great, leather-covered easy-chair, her pale face in 


192 


OVER TIIE HILLS 


the searching light, her hands clasped tightly on 
her knee, her short-sighted eyes blinking a little 
in the sun. Dinah asked her all about her uncle’s 
illness, and inquired about where they were going 
to in London, to which Annie replied evasively. 
At last she looked again at Dinah, and repeated 
her remark — 

4 You are really going to Glarn ? ’ 

4 Yes, to-morrow,’ said Dinah again. 

Annie flushed a thin, clear scarlet for an instant, 
over all her white face. Dinah had never seen 
her redden before. 4 Well,’ she said, 4 in that 
case I ’d better tell you ; you ’ll hear it from some 
one else. It will save trouble, and save my own 
reputation too in the end, for it ’s sure to come 
out in a mangled form. Do you know what 
brought on Mr. Campbell’s illness, Dinah ? ’ 

4 Yes ; Jane Anne told us that in her letter. 
She said that he suddenly heard a report that 
Lewis had been drowned.’ 

4 It was the night before Lewis was going to 
have. started for America. He had persuaded me 
to come with him.’ 

4 You,' said Dinah. 

Annie laughed. 4 Yes. Wasn’t it curious to 
want a person like me ? ’ She flickered her eye- 
lids, watching Dinah’s face. 

4 Oh, Annie, I did not mean that ; I was only 
surprised. ’ 


OVEE TI1E HILLS 


193 


Annie nodded. ‘ You know that Mr. Campbell 
and my uncle would neither of them ever have 
consented to our getting married here ; so we had 
arranged to go away together without making a 
fuss. Old people are so unpleasant when they get 
excited.’ 

Her thoughts seemed suddenly to have strayed 
away to something different. An absent look 
stole into her face. She played with the corner 
of her cloak, plaiting it up in her fingers, and 
smoothing it out again with care. 

Dinah stared at this incomprehensible levity. 

4 Well, Annie, what happened then ? ’ she said in 
a low voice. 

Annie came back to her subject with a start. 
‘ O-o,’ she said, with the little chuckle in her 
throat that some people found so touching, ‘ I 
really meant to do it at the time— but— oh ! ’ 
She threw out her hands and shivered. ‘ We were 
nearly drowned, Dinah ; and I realised what a 
fuss it would all make, and how it would have 
distressed all the old people. I remembered about 
uncle’s illness ’ 

‘ Kather late,’ said Dinah. She sat upright, 
pressing her hands together, looking at Annie 
with her great eyes, her face assuming a severity 
that made it quite old for a moment. 

Annie went on without heeding her. ‘ Oh, it 
was horrible ! We had to go to a cottage, for it 


194 


OVER THE HILLS 


was late at night, and we were a long way from 
home, and I was almost dead. And then in the 
morning a message came from uncle. ’ She paused, 
and went on with an almost imperceptible hurry- 
ing over this part of her story. 4 Lord Glarn 
came after us. He had promised uncle to find out 
whether the story about our being drowned was 
true . 9 

c Why did he go ? ’ 

4 Oh, because he happened to meet uncle, and 
saw how distressed he was— so I came home ; and 
Lewis, I think, would have gone away, but he 
got a message about his father’s illness. Queer, 
wasn’t it ? And then in a day or two uncle got 
worse, and so we had to come away, and that was 
the end of it all. ’ 

4 The end of it all ! ’ Dinah repeated, as if she 
had not understood Annie’s words. 

4 Yes, yes, yes, just folly,’ laughed Annie. 

4 Did you love Lewis Campbell ? ’ said Dinah, 
looking down at her. 

4 I thought I did.’ 

4 Then, I do not understand why you turned 
back at the last moment. ’ 

4 Because I was almost drowned.’ 

4 What had that to do with it ? ’ said Dinah. 

4 It didn’t drown your love.’ 

4 Yes, I think it did. You can’t understand, 
Dinah. I never supposed you could. You ’re not 


OYER THE HILLS 


195 


like that. I suddenly saw everything different — 
everything just burst like a soap-bubble.’ 

She spoke with composure, and was quite un- 
prepared for the sudden, passionate contempt in 
Dinah’s voice as she answered her. 

4 1 ’m glad I don’t understand you, Annie.’ 

Annie rose and held out her hand. 4 1 must go 
now, Dinah. Good-bye. Why are you so angry ? 
I ’d have imagined you would have been horribly 
shocked by the idea of my running away with 
Lewis, not at my giving it up. You don’t think 
that it would have been right to do that surely, 
Dinah ? ’ 

4 Right ! ’ echoed Dinah ; then, with one of her 
quick, sweeping movements, she flung Annie’s 
hand away and turned from her. 4 Bah ! ’ she 
said ; 4 you can neither do right nor wrong ! ’ 

Annie attempted no further farewell. She 
nodded, 4 Good-bye, Dinah ! ’ and leaving Dinah 
still standing looking away from her, she went 
softly out of the room, out of the house, and hur- 
ried up the broad, uneven street, clasping her 
purse tightly in her fingers. 

4 1 ’ll pay the bills from London now,’ she said, 
as she passed the dressmaker’s shop. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Every one who came in contact with her under- 
stood that where Miss J erningham’s arrangements 
were concerned, matters had to be pressed for- 
ward ; so it was that, in spite of tardy coaches, 
delays by roadside inns, and such like incidents 
belonging to the inconvenient journey, Dinah 
arrived at Glarn only three days after she had 
heard of her cousin’s illness. 

She stood at the door when the hired chaise in 
which she had driven for the last few miles had 
rumbled away. c Can this be the place ? ’ she 
wondered. The house was so dark, so silent, so 
inexpressibly lonely. 

She could see no door bell or knocker ; so after 
waiting for a few moments in hopes of the appear- 
ance of a servant, she came walking into the 
house, glanced into the sitting-rooms on the left 
and right, and finding them empty, made her 
way along to the kitchen. It was empty too, 
save for old Phemie, who, worn out by two nights 
of watching, sat sound asleep by the fire. She 
did not waken at the sound of Dinah’s entrance. 


OVER THE HILLS 


197 


When Miss Jerningham bent over her and spoke, 
she only replied by an incoherent murmur, and 
rolled her head to the other side. 

After an instant’s consideration, Dinah removed 
her heavy travelling cloak and veil, drew off her 
gloves, and then went softly upstairs. On the 
upper landing she paused, for at the end of one of 
the narrow passages she saw a door standing ajar. 
She went forward to it noiselessly. Some one 
was walking up and down the floor. It could not 
be the sick-room, she concluded, so she gently 
pushed the door open and looked in. She saw 
Lewis walking up and down with the child in his 
arms, and he was singing it asleep, his voice as 
soft as honey, in the dusk. It was the same tune 
that Dinah had heard him sing before — 

4 Rose of the World ! Star of the Sea ! 
Mother of sinners, pray for me ! ’ 

4 Lewis ! ’ said Dinah quietly, stepping forward 
from the shadow where she stood. He started, 
and she held out her hands instinctively to catch 
the child in case he let it fall. 

4 Oh, give her to me,’ she said, and Lewis very 
willingly relinquished his burden. She explained 
her sudden arrival, then she sat down on the low 
chair by the fire with the baby on her knee — it 
had fallen asleep almost as soon as she had taken 
it — and asked him to tell her about Jane Anne’s 
illness, and how his father was. 


198 


OYER THE HILLS 


The confusion and distress of the past week, 
the sense that the young man had had of being 
necessary in the house, and yet helpless at the 
same time, lightened all at once under Dinah’s 
presence. By and bye he took her to Jane Anne’s 
room. It was almost dark. ‘ The lass ’ who had 
been sitting beside the bed rose with a clumsy 
curtsey, as this apparition of a tall, stately, strange 
young lady entered the room ; but the sick woman 
did not seem to find her presence at all remark- 
able. As Dinah bent over her pillow and laid her 
firm, cold hand on hers, she opened her eyes. 

( Ah, Dinah, you ’ve come. I knew you would 
come,’ she whispered. Then, as Dinah told her 
not to speak, ‘ You will take care of my little 
baby, ’ she said, and as she turned her face on the 
pillow with a sigh, she murmured, ‘ I can sleep 
now, thank God.’ 

There be some (alas ! too few of us) c born for 
adversity,’ as the Scripture says, and Dinah Jer- 
ningham was one of these. From the hour when 
she entered the disordered little household, every- 
thing was changed. After the first few days, 
when Jane Anne seemed to be out of danger, 
Dinah left the sick-room for a while and turned 
her attention to the disorganised domestic affairs. 
It was with something of a militant spirit that she 
put things to rights. Phemie trembled in silence 
before her, although she never spoke an angry 


OYER THE HILLS 


199 


word. Like magic, a degree of order that had 
never been known there for many a long day 
stole over the poor, little household. 

It was a strange companionship for the two 
young people left alone in the silent house. When 
Dinah had sat in the nursery the night that she 
had arrived, the sight of its meagre, poverty- 
stricken appointments had gone to her heart. 
When she put the baby to bed, and recognised 
Jane Anne’s unskilful handiwork in its grotesque 
flannel garments, a lump rose in her throat. She 
naturally was inclined to put rather too high a 
value on the luxuries of life. She liked them for 
their own sake, and had always been used to hav- 
ing them ; and the sight of this house, so much 
poorer than she had expected it to be, impressed 
her profoundly. 

As the days went by, and her anxiety about 
Jane Anne lessened, she had time to observe and 
comment to herself upon the change in Lewis. 
His face had hardened strangely in a few weeks. 
Lines invisible before had now been stamped there 
indelibly. 

Dinah made no allusion to having seen Annie at 
all ; nor did he mention it to her. He would sit 
in silence beside her when they were alone ; and 
she, having the rare gift of maintaining silence 
without an effort, made no attempt to intrude upon 
his thoughts. 


200 


OVEE THE HILLS 


But one day they were both in Jane Anne's 
room. She was now allowed to speak a little, and 
had been asking Dinah all sorts of questions. 

4 Annie Fraser has never been here, Lewis/ 
she said innocently. 4 Has she never come to in- 
quire for your father ? ’ 

Dinah looked up and met Lewis’s eyes fixed on 
her. 

4 I must tell you about Annie some other time,’ 
she said to Jane Anne. 4 You must go to sleep 
now, Janie, and not talk any more. Come away, 
Lewis, let us leave her quiet now. ’ 

4 You have heard about Father Fraser’s illness, 
Dinah ? ’ said Lewis, when they had left the 
room. 

4 Yes,’ said Dinah ; and she added deliberately, 

‘ I saw Annie before I left Ubster. ’ 

Lewis did not speak. Dinah glanced at his low- 
ering brow and tightened lips. 

4 Annie told me about what had happened that 
night before all this, ’ she went on. 

4 She did, did she ! ’ said he, raising his head. 

4 And what did she tell you, Dinah ? ' 

Dinah repeated the story. 

4 Was it not true ? ’ she asked. 

4 You have known Annie all these years,’ he 
said. 

4 Yes,’ said Dinah, 4 since we were at school to- 
gether. ’ 


OYER THE HILLS 


201 


f And have you ever known her speak the whole 
truth, and nothing but the truth, about anything?’ 
said Lewis bitterly ; for, ah ! during these last 
few weeks he had found out for himself that this 
is true ; a single deception in any one whom we 
have trusted once may light up, all of a sud- 
den, in one day — in an hour maybe — a whole 
train of circumstances as we have never seen 
them before, and the faith of years vanishes at 
the sight. 

Dinah was silent, then she said slowly, ‘ I don’t 
know about that. I think Annie never deceives 
herself. She always knows what she is doing. 
Sometimes she speaks the truth ; at least, at school 
she could speak it when she liked.’ 

She looked at Lewis, wondering what the whole 
truth had been. 

But in the course of the next week her thoughts 
were directed to quite other matters. Another 
shadow fell upon the house ; for as Jane Anne 
gradually gained strength, old Mr. Campbell grew 
weaker and weaker, and he died one night with- 
out any return to consciousness or any word of 
farewell. 

During the days that followed his death, the 
whole weight of everything seemed to fall upon 
Dinah, for Jane Anne was utterly unnerved and 
distraught. On the evening after the funeral, 
Lewis and Dinah sat alone together in the oppres- 


202 


OVEE THE IIILLS 


sive stillness that had reigned in the house since 
morning. Dinah looked across at the young man, 
who had been silent for a long time. 

4 What are you going to do now, Lewis ? ’ she 
asked. 4 Are you going to live on at Glarn ? ’ 

He startled her by the sudden, harsh laugh he 
gave in reply. 

4 Do ! I don’t care what I do ; my life’s all 
broken.’ 

Dinah’s consolations were always of an ex- 
tremely practical order. 

4 The more reason why you should think of 
others, then, ’ she said. 

4 Y ou mean my stepmother and the child ? ’ 

4 Yes ; will they live on here ? ’ 

Lewis started. 4 No, Dinah ; I must tell you 
about that, it ’s a miserable story. You will de- 
spise me for ever when you have heard it. ’ Then, 
slowly, with great pauses between his sentences 
(Dinah listened in patient silence the whole time), 
he told her the whole story of how he had played 
with the Marquis that night— what the stake had 
been — and how he had lost everything. 

When he had finished, Dinah made no remark 
except to say, 4 You ’ll have to get some work 
then if you must leave Glarn. ’ 

4 1 suppose so,’ he answered vaguely, and then 
he noticed that Dinah gave a little stamp of irri- 
tation with her foot on the floor, an action he asso- 


OVEK THE HILLS 


203 


ciated very much with Jerningham. He looked 
at her in surprise. 

4 I told you, you would think me a fool, ’ he 
said. 

‘Yes,’ answered Dinah suddenly, 4 1 do ; you 
are ; everything I ’ve ever seen you do is foolish. ’ 

There was such a likeness to one of her father’s 
speeches in this frank declaration, that Lewis 
almost laughed in spite of the angry flush that 
mounted to his face. He controlled himself with 
an effort. 

4 1 have too much reason to be grateful to you, 
Miss Jerningham, to he angry at anything you 
may choose to say, ’ he answered. 

4 Grateful ! ’ echoed Dinah. 4 How can you 
talk such nonsense ? One need not be grateful to 
any one whom one cares about at all. I am sorry 
I spoke so rudely just now. Will you forgive me, 
Lewis ? ’ 

He was silent, for he had been very deeply 
hurt. 

Dinah went on : 4 You know that you are fool- 
ish, because you throw away things for nothing. 
With half a reason it wouldn’t be so bad. You 
threw up the chance you had in my father’s office 
because of a few angry words. You have just 
told me how you threw away all your property 
for an hour’s excitement. And I know,’ she 
looked straight at him as she spoke, 4 that you ’ve 


204 


OVEE THE HILLS 


gone and thrown away all your happiness for . . . 
Annie Fraser ! * 

The tone in which Dinah uttered the last words 
showed very conclusively why she thought him a 
fool. 


CHAPTER XXY 


A row of sparrows sat all along the edge of the 
high blank wall and fluffed out their feathers, and 
chirruped with new notes, for there had been a 
heavy, quick shower of rain, and now everything 
smelt fresh and delightful. The great walls of the 
convent shut out all further view on one side of 
the narrow street. Annie, as she idly watched 
the birds from the window on the opposite side of 
the street, wondered what they could see from 
* their position of vantage. In the middle of the 
wall there was a low doorway, encircled by a 
sculptured cord that ended in two huge stone 
knots. Only twice since she had arrived four days 
before had any sign of life been visible. Once it 
was a message boy who had been admitted by the 
invisible guardian of the gate ; the second time a 
sister, hooded and shapeless, in black garments, 
with a sly, fat face. The Mother Superior her- 
self, who had given the address of the lodgings to 
them, had come over two or three times to inquire 
for the old priest, and she had been very favour- 
ably impressed by the quiet tenderness with which 


206 


OYEE THE HILLS 


Annie spoke about him. She had also sounded 
her gently as to whether, in the event of her 
uncle’s recovery proving hopeless, Annie would 
have any fancy for joining them. But to the 
Eeverend Mother’s questions, Annie, with down- 
cast eyes, had replied that she was not worthy to 
become the Bride of Christ. 

She had been sitting idly at the window for an 
hour and more, listening at first to the quick rap- 
ping of the summer rain upon roofs and windows, 
then watching the sparrows preening themselves 
after the shower had ceased. She rang the bell 
at last and asked the landlady, for the third time 
that afternoon, if no letter had come for her. 

4 I must ; I daren’t wait another day,’ she said 
to herself. 4 Oh ! if I could only be sure.’ 

Here the landlady appeared again in bonnet and 
cloak. 4 I’m going out now, Miss, and can get 
what you wanted from the bank,’ she said. 

Annie hesitated, looked at the clock, then said, 
4 Oh yes, thank you ; wait a moment.’ She un- 
locked a little desk that stood on the table and 
took out a cheque, hurriedly signed a name across 
it, and looked for a bit of paper to wrap it in. 
Her hands were trembling, but her face was calm. 
There seemed nothing but letters in the desk. 
She took up one hurriedly ; it was the note from 
Mr. Jerningham, on the blank sheet of which 
Lewis had once written out their contract of mar- 


OVER TIIE HILLS 


207 


riage. The pencil lines were still on the top, with 
his signature, and the place for hers left blank. 
She tore it quickly across, wrapped the cheque up 
in the clean bit of paper, thrust it into an envelope, 
and gave it to the landlady. 4 Thank you, that ’s 
all ; and be sure that you bring back the money, 
for I am in a hurry for it,’ she said. When the 
woman had gone, Annie sat for a minute gazing 
abstractedly before her, then took from the desk 
the remainder of the letter with the scrap of paper 
that bore Lewis’s name, and lighting a match, she 
burnt it in the grate, holding the end until her 
fingers were singed at the tips. 

It was done at last, and only a little end of 
blackened paper ash left in the grate. She rubbed 
her fingers and drew a sigh of relief. When the 
landlady came back from the bank and gave her 
the money, she looked at the girl closely : 4 You 
should perhaps be thinking of getting a nurse for 
your uncle now, Miss ; he ’s far gone.’ 

4 I think I must look after him myself to the 
last,’ Annie answered. She did not see the sig- 
nificance with which the woman folded her lips at 
this reply. 

It had cleared by this time into a fine mild even- 
ing. Annie was restless, and went out to get 
some fresh air. As she came up the lane, she met 
a man walking quickly down, and at sight of him 
her colour changed suddenly. It was Vere — Lord 


208 


OYEE THE HILLS 


Glarn’s cousin. He came up to her smiling. 4 I 
was coming to inquire for your uncle,’ he said ; 
4 but let me walk on with you, as you are going 
out.’ 

Annie consented, and they went up the narrow 
street together. She held a letter in her hand ad- 
dressed to a dressmaker in Ubster, and he noticed 
that her face was pale. 

4 How is Lord Glarn ? ’ she asked at last, glanc- 
ing up at him under her eyelashes ; her lips were 
dry, and she could hardly utter the words. 

4 Oh, he’s all right,’ Yere answered. He did 
not add the information that Annie longed for, 
and she dared not trust her voice to ask. At the 
head of the lane a newsboy was shouting out de- 
tails from the evening papers. Annie listened as 
she talked to Yere, but in the hoarse shouting she 
could not distinguish the name that she wanted to 
hear. 

A nun came out of the convent door, and Annie 
curtseyed devoutly to her as they passed. 4 It is 
the Eeverend Mother, ’ she said to Y ere. 

4 1 am glad to see that poor child taking a breath 
of air at last, ’ thought the good lady, watching 
them. 4 She looks pale, as if the anxiety had been 
too much for her ; ’ and she looked from under 
her hood with some disapproval at Yere, with his 
slightly battered air, bending earnestly to talk to 
the girl at his side. 


OYER THE HILLS 


209 


‘ I only came out to post this ; I must go home 
now,’ said Annie to him, as she slipped the letter 
that she had been carrying into the letter-box that 
stood at the head of the lane. 


CHAPTER XXVI 

Two days had passed, days of sultry heat, with 
the threatening feeling of coming thunder. It 
was a dark afternoon, without a breath of wind 
anywhere. As the clock of the convent struck, 
Annie turned away from the window and went 
and looked in to her uncle’s bedroom, which 
opened off the sitting-room. She satisfied herself 
that he was asleep, and then returning, took up 
the newspaper that had lain on the table since 
breakfast. 

She had not needed to re-read the announcement 
once all this time. Now she looked at it with a 
smile, and then laid the paper aside, for the words 
had danced before her eyes all morning : ‘ On the 

11th, at her residence, Square, Catherine 

Mary, Marchioness of Glarn.’ A mere line. 
Annie had read it that morning without a change 
of countenance ; had read it aloud to her uncle 
afterwards without a quiver in her voice ; but she 
had been restless all day, and now she flung her- 
self. into a chair, and tossed out her hands with a 
gesture of weariness, looking round the parlour as 


OYER THE HILLS 


211 


if in search of any object that could afford her a 
moment’s diversion. It was only a very ordinary 
lodging-house room, filled with pieces of furniture 
bought at sales, having no relation to each other, 
or to the taste of any single individual, each arti- 
cle of dreary ugliness in itself rendered worse by 
its divorce from its original setting. 

Annie was not one of those women who carry a 
home about with them wherever they go, so she 
had not thought it worth while to make any effort 
to relieve the ugliness of her surroundings. She 
was not vain either ; so when at last she heard a 
voice inquiring if she was at home, and knew that 
the visitor whom she had been expecting had ar- 
rived, she did not glance at the mirror (the awful 
cheap mirror) above the mantelpiece, as many, as 
most women would have done, nor alter her posi- 
tion where she sat in the harsh light. She was of 
far too deeply practical a nature to attend to trifles 
of that sort. 

When, therefore, the landlady, with hushed 
voice, announced ‘ The Marquis of Glarn, ’ all that 
her visitor beheld when he entered was a little 
figure, in a shabby dress, sitting alone in the 
dreary, dingy, unfamiliar room, sitting bending 
forwards, her hands clasped slackly on her knees. 
But the brilliant eyes that were fixed on him as 
she silently waited for him to speak, without rising 
from her chair, or giving him any greeting, were 


212 


OVEK THE HILLS 


like the bright innocent eyes of a snake as it 
watches and does not stir. 

He crossed acres of worn hnge-patterned carpet ; 
trodden skin rugs, chairs — lodging-house chairs, 
and rickety things seemed to be standing every- 
where in his way. It was only three or four steps 
from the door to where she sat, but it seemed a 
mile before he reached her chair. The hands of 
the fly-spotted gilt clock on the mantelpiece had 
not ticked thrice, but it seemed as if minutes had 
passed before she spoke. 

4 1 thought that you would come,’ she said, still 
without moving. 

4 You know then ? You ’ He stood before 

her trembling. 

Annie just lifted one of her little hands with a 
delicate fluttering motion towards him, and, lo ! 
the chain had snapped. He knelt down suddenly 
by the chair where she sat, and she heard his 
breath caught quick like sobs. 

4 Ah ! ah ! 5 he whispered, 4 1 feel ! I feel ! — 
at last, ’ and he hid his face on her knees. 4 Oh, 
lay your little hands upon my head, Annie ! 
Mercy ! mercy ! I think my heart will break ! ’ 

Annie was not much given to caresses, nor prodi- 
gal of them at any time. She merely allowed her 
two hands to drop softly on his head for an instant 
as he knelt there with his face against her knees. 
She felt how he trembled, and her face twisted up 


OYER T1IE HILLS 


213 


into an odd momentary smile. He rose up again 
slowly, looking about the room in a dazzled way. 

6 It has been a year since yesterday ! ’ he said. 

‘ It has been a long day to me too,’ said Annie 
gently. ‘ I have not been able to leave my uncle 
at all, and it is not like being at home here, I have 
so little to do. 5 

A feeble voice sounded from the next room at 
that moment, and she hurried away, relieved that 
the tension of such a scene was over. Lord Glarn 
heard her moving about in the sick man’s room, 
speaking rather sharply. ‘ The old man must be 
deaf,’ he thought. ‘ She raises her voice.’ After 
a minute or two she came back again, softly closing 
the door behind her. 

‘ Uncle gets a little feverish in the afternoon,’ 
she said, ‘ so I cannot let you see him. He heard 
your voice, and he wanted to see you, but it does 
him harm to speak.’ 

Lord Glarn by this time had recovered his usual 
cpmposure, and his face was impassive as ever as 
he spoke. ‘ I shall go abroad — for a while— as 
soon as ’ he paused for a moment—* as every- 

thing is over. When I come back, Annie ? ’ He 
watched her face, her downcast eyes. 

* Oh, perhaps— a long time in the future,’ said 
Annie. The words were scarcely audible, but the 
manner was encouraging. 

‘ I shall come on Monday and bid you good-bye. 


214 


OYEE THE HILLS 


Can I offer yon any assistance in any way ? Has 
everything that can be clone been arranged for 
your uncle’s comfort while he is here ? ’ 

4 Oh yes ; the Eeverend Mother has been most 
kind.’ 

He stood as if undecided whether to leave with- 
out saying more, and then he added, 4 You left 
the district rather suddenly after that morning 
when I brought you home to Eclderty.’ 

‘Yes ; we had to decide immediately.’ 

4 Did you see Campbell again before you left ? ’ 

4 No ; I did not see him.’ 

4 Did you write to him ? ’ 

4 JSTo ; I had no time.’ 

4 You have heard of the old man’s death, I sup- 
pose ? ’ 

4 Yes,’ said Annie ; 4 1 was very sorry.’ 

The Marquis looked at her. 4 You are a sym- 
pathetic creature,’ he said. 

Annie could judge nothing of his meaning by 
the tone of the remark. 4 What do you mean \ ’ 
she asked. 

He laughed. 4 1 mean something of what 
Shakespeare meant. ’ 

4 Where ? ’ said Annie, whose knowledge of the 
poet was limited to select passages read with Miss 
Macneil’s young ladies. 

He gazed at her— her fair head, her slight fig- 
ure, that had a pensive air in its shabby black 


OYEE TIIE HILLS 


215 


dress, at the soft little hands that had been placed 
on his bowed head as he knelt there before her a 
few minutes ago. 

* When my Love swears that she is made of Truth, 

I do believe her , tho' 1 know she lies , ’ 

he said slowly. 

1 1 bn very stupid about poetry. I never under- 
stand,’ said Annie, with extreme simplicity. 

She then said good-bye to him, went and stood 
by the window, and watched him go down the 
narrow quiet street. The sparrows had flown off 
upon their own errands now, the sun shone out 
again upon the blank walls and the low shut door 
of the convent. Annie looked at it with perfect 
satisfaction. She dabbed with her handkerchief 
at two flies that were buzzing loudly on the win- 
dow panes, killed them, shook them away, and 
turned from the window with a sweet smile as the 
landlady came in. 

‘ I must go out now,’ she said to her, ‘ and if 
Father Fraser requires anything while I am away, 
he will ring for you.’ 

When she was ready to go out, she put her 
head in at the bedroom door. ‘ Mrs. Willis will 
attend to you when I am out, uncle,’ she called. 

‘ I should like the window open, Annie, it is so 
hot,’ he murmured. 

She stepped up to the window, but the cords 


21G 


OYER TIIE HILLS 


were grimy, and she had on a pair of new gloves. 
4 Oh, it will only let in the dust, uncle ; it ’s much 
better shut,’ she said decisively. She moved the 
blind a bit, set down a cup of cold, half-eaten food 
beside him, and hurried out of the room. 4 I shall 
be late now, and Lady Jane is so particular.’ 

4 1 am so hot, Annie, if you could change my 
things,’ he began, but Annie answered as she 
turned away — 

4 1 ’ll do it when I come in ; I really haven’t 
time just now. ’ 


CHAPTER XXYII 


Jane Anne was a bereaved widow, more perhaps 
in the abstract than as an individual. The shock 
of her husband’s death had at first thrown her 
back in her recovery, and for some weeks after- 
wards she was very ill indeed. Dinah and Lewis 
watched over her and nursed her together ; she 
was surrounded by a tenderness that she had never 
before experienced. As she began to get better, 
she was, of course, in her own conventional fancy, 
entirely bereaved, weighed down by a sense of 
the desolation of her widowhood. But, after all, 
in reality she was not broken-hearted. The re- 
sponsibilities of married life had been too heavy 
for her. She had always stood much in awe of 
her husband ; and now, when her affection for 
him was safe in the unchangeable past, she could 
indulge in the peaceful sorrow of a devoted wife, 
and worship his sainted memory without misgiv- 
ings. Dinah had broken to her gradually the idea 
that it would be necessary for them to leave 
Glarn 4 because of money matters. ’ When Lewis 
had spoken to her about it, she assented imme- 


218 


OYER THE HILLS 


diately without precise inquiry. Indeed, she would 
have considered it a sadly unfeminine thing to do 
to have asked a man any questions about pecuniary 
affairs. With Dinah, however, the matter was 
different. She did not ask Lewis about his affairs, 
it is true ; but one day after he had spent some 
hours in colloquy with his father’s lawyer, who 
had come from Ubster to see him, he told her that 
the Marquis had written to offer him -a handsome 
price for Glarn. 4 For as to that night’s folly,’ 
he wrote, 4 if you will agree to this, I shall con- 
sider the whole matter settled. I played you for 
44 Naboth’s Vineyard,” but I never wanted to get 
it for nothing.’ He added that he was going 
abroad for some time, and would hear Lewis’s de- 
cision on his return. 

Dinah read the letter, and astonished Lewis as 
she handed it back to him by saying that she 
thought he ought to take the money. 

4 Take it ! ’ echoed Lewis in amazement ; 4 1 
would as soon steal as take his money for that ; 
it ’s a debt like any other ; I won’t take a six- 
pence for it.’ 

But Dinah had inherited some of Jerningham’s 
respect for money. 

4 The whole thing was foolish,’ she said. 4 But 
you tell me that at the time he offered to pay you, 
and I ’m sure that he ought to. You were both 
wrong to gamble, and the best way to atone for 


OYER THE HILLS 


219 


it now is that he should pay, and that you should 
sell him the place as you promised. ’ 

4 I never promised to sell it ! I promised that 
he should have it if he won it. He did, and it is 
mine no longer. But,’ he added, 4 I fear we shall 
never agree upon some points, Miss Jerningham. 
You ’ ve told me once already that you thought me 
a fool ; you ’ll say so more than ever now, I sup- 
pose.’ 

4 1 will,’ Dinah answered, laughing, and some- 
how this time the accusation did not hurt him at 
all. She entered into the question of his affairs 
as solidly and as keenly as her father might have 
done, and Lewis fairly laughed at the eagerness of 
her business-like questions. 

4 It is not a brilliant prospect, you see, ’ he said, 
when at last he had explained everything to her. 
4 It may perhaps be possible for my stepmother and 
the child to live on what remains, but that ’s all. 7 

4 What more would you wish ? ’ said the girl. 
4 You surely wouldn’t want to do nothing.’ 

Many weeks had now passed since she had 
come to Glarn, and as yet she had never spoken 
about going home. Her parents had left Ubster 
for a while, so that it was not necessary for her to 
return, and Jane Anne depended on her so help- 
lessly, that it would have been cruel for her to 
leave just then. Everything in the household had 
devolved upon her. She never appeared to feel 


220 


OYER THE HILLS 


the isolation and loneliness of Glarn that had so 
haunted Jane Anne upon her first arrival. 

4 You have things to occupy you indoors, Janie, 
just the same as if you lived in the biggest town 
in the world,’ she would say when her cousin com- 
plained of the oppressive solitude. 

Dinah liked to stand in front of the house and 
look round and round about her, seeing every- 
where, on every side, the same wastes of red 
blooming moorland, the hills rising like a rampart 
against the sky. Since her arrival time had never 
hung heavy on her hands for an instant. 

When she stood in the kitchen cooking, with a 
white apron on, her whole energetic nature com- 
pletely absorbed in the task, Phemie and 4 the 
lass’ would exchange glances, wondering if it 
were possible that she could be an heiress after 
all. 

4 There ’s low blood in one that can raise a cake 
like that, Phemie,’ the girl remarked. Even 
Phemie, who in youth had been accustomed to 
the notable housewives of the North, had a lin- 
gering feeling that Miss Jerningham’s cookery was 
a trifle too masterly for a 4 lady -born.’ But she 
came in time to regard the girl with something 
like adoration in spite of this. 

4 You would make a splendid wife for a poor 
man, Dinah,’ Jane Anne exclaimed one day, 
watching her with a timid, regretful look, as she 


OYER THE HILLS 


221 


went about various household occupations in a 
style that the best trained servant might have 
envied. 

‘ Oh, I don’t know about that,’ the girl an- 
swered, laughing ; ‘ I am too fond of having 
everything right, Janie.’ 

On Sundays, when Jane Anne was unable to 
go to church, Dinah used to go alone with Lewis. 
It was no distance. They had merely to cross 
the grass in front of the house, to walk for about 
a hundred yards, as the little tinkling bell was 
stopping, and the peasant people who were saun- 
tering up the knoll began to drop in one by one 
to the small building. Then Dinah would step 
down into the church (for the floor was sunk below 
the level of the ground outside, and you stepped 
into it as into a cellar) and occupy the corner of 
the pew where poor Jane Anne used to sit and 
shiver while listening to her husband’s ministra- 
tion. 

The country people grew to know her and to 
watch for her steadfast face. Dinah felt none of 
the dreariness there which had so oppressed Jane 
Anne. She liked the stillness, the smell of damp 
and old wood, the small, clear-paned windows, 
and the wailing sound of the Highland voices in 
the uncouth Psalms. 

One Sunday afternoon they were sitting art 
church together. Dinah noticed during the ser- 


222 


OYER THE HILLS 


vice how Lewis had leaned his head on his arms 
and sat with his face hidden the whole time. She 
looked at him, pitying him, for she thought that 
he was thinking about Annie. He was, in fact, 
but not quite as Dinah imagined. As the sermon 
droned on, he remembered how he used to sit 
there, counting the moments until he should be 
able to see her again. He held up before himself 
the image of what he had once so worshipped and 
desired, and found that it had shrivelled and 
changed into something unrecognisable. He 
thought of all his promises, his vows and his pas- 
sion, and the whole thing seemed to belong now 
to another life. Dinah, looking at his bowed 
head, felt herself outside of his grief and unable 
to offer him any help. She looked very grave in- 
deed as, the service at an end, they sat watching 
whilst the handful of people slowly dispersed. 
They, too, rose when the church was empty, and 
came out together into the sunshine at the door. 

‘ I shall never forget the Sundays here, ’ said 
Dinah. 

She tried to shake off her gravity, and pointed 
to one of the stones by the door. 

4 Who was this Margaret Campbell ? ’ she asked. 

4 An ancestress of yours ? ’ 

She rubbed away as she spoke at the yellow 
lichen that was clinging to the stone. 

4 Oh ! I ’ll tell you that story,’ said Lewis, his 


OYER THE HILLS 


223 


face brightening. 4 She was the one I liked best 
of all. I used to ask my father to tell it to me 
over and over. She was the one with the branded 
cheek . 5 

4 Was she burnt ? ’ asked Dinah idly, thinking 
not about the subject of the story, but about an- 
other woman who, at that moment, was afraid 
she might betray what she felt. 

As Lewis went on with the story, however, she 
raised her eyes to his face and listened eagerly. 
He told her how, when the Campbells were out- 
lawed at the time of Argyle’s rebellion, this girl 
had followed her lover, who was one of them, 
gone with him 4 to prison and to judgment/ and 
in the gang of prisoners had been shipped off to 
the Barbadoes along with him. 

4 They cut off the men’s ears, and branded the 
women on the cheek,’ he concluded. 4 She came 
home, an old woman, nearly fifty years after- 
wards, and the people had a legend that there 
were scars on her left cheek. ’ 

Dinah had been listening spellbound. Suddenly 
he noticed that as he spoke she had put up her 
hand and was smoothing her cheek with it. 

4 Did he love her too ? ’ she asked in a low 
voice. 

4 Well, I suppose so ; history does not relate, 
but they were married anyhow. I should think 
he did if she was a woman like that. ’ 


224 OYEE THE HILLS 

„ 1 Those things are not always equal,’ said 
Dinah. 

‘ Ho,’ said Lewis bitterly ; he was thinking 
about Annie. 

With one accord they moved silently forward 
through the long grass, down the little, steep path, 
Dinah still thoughtfully smoothing her cheek with 
her hand. 

‘ Yes, yes, you would have done it, Dinah,’ said 
Lewis, and she dropped her hand and looked up at 
him quickly, blushing all over her face. 

‘Oh, Dinah,’ cried the young man suddenly, 
taking her hands in his, ‘ I have been mad, I think 
— a fool beyond all others — blind. I am not 
worthy that you should ever waste a thought upon 
me, only tell me that you do not despise me for 
ever, and let me think ’ 

He stopped, confused and hesitating. Dinah 
drew her hands away. 

6 You know I do not despise you,’ she said. 

She walked on without looking at him again, 
and Lewis as he followed her could not say another 
word. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


‘ I must go home, Janie,’ said Dinah the next day, 
as she finished reading a letter from her father. 

‘ Oh, Dinah ! ’ exclaimed Jane Anne in dismay. 
A whole volume could not have conveyed more of 
what Dinah’s going would mean to her. Mr. Jer- 
ningham’s letter was short and peremptory. He 
had come home, he said, and he now wished Dinah 
to leave Glarn immediately and return to Ubster. 
He added that he had reasons for this command, 
which he would give to her on her return. 

‘ Reasons ! ’ said Dinah ; ‘ I wonder what they 
are? Papa’s reasons are always strong. I hope 
that there is nothing wrong at home. ’ 

‘ Must you really go ? Can you leave us ? 
Wliat shall we do without you ? ’ said Jane Anne. 
She tried to persuade her to stay at least for a few 
days longer, but Dinah’s resolutions were gener- 
ally final. She had made up her mind that she 
must leave as soon as she could. 

‘ I shall go to-morrow, ’ she said, with a sad de- 
cision in her voice, and she began at once to make 
preparations for her departure. 


226 


OVER THE HILLS 


She did not even look at Lewis ; and he, who 
had for a moment felt his heart stand still, made 
no effort to speak to her alone. She went about 
the house trying to arrange everything as far as 
she could, so as to give Jane Anne as little trouble 
as possible, comforting her, and assuring her that 
they would meet very soon in Ubster. She said 
something to her about coming again to live with 
them if Lewis had to go and work elsewhere, but 
Jane Anne replied to that with an energy that sur- 
prised the girl. 4 1 would rather starve, Dinah,’ 
she said; so Dinah contented herself instead by 
talking of the tiny house that she would take in 
Ubster. Phemie would be with her, and the 
child, and Lewis would come whenever he had a 
holiday, even if he could not live always with her ; 
she would be near them, antf be amongst old 
friends. This prospect comforted Jane Anne a 
good deal, and she spoke quite hopefully of the 
new plan. 

Lewis left them together talking of these things. 
He walked off restlessly towards the hills, follow- 
ing the tracks made by the sheep amongst the 
hummocks of heather until he came into the deep 
narrow valley between the great mountain and the 
ridge of rocky hills that faced it. It was a day of 
intense clear heat ; in the wonderful limpid atmos- 
phere every twig on the low trees, every rock, 
stump, and tuft of heather was visible on the flank 


OVEB THE HILLS 


227 


of the mountain opposite to him. Looking up, the 
intolerable clearness of the sky made him feel sud- 
denly as if God were looking down upon him, dis- 
cerning every thought and intent of his heart as 
clearly as the light was searching every leaf and 
fibre in the sun- stricken glen. Down there he 
used to walk with Annie. Surely he had loved 
her ? Had he not sworn to love her for ever, and 
thought that she had broken his heart ? And now 
— Oh ! it was a hopeless case — he could make no 
effort against the overwhelming force of the pas- 
sion that had lain dormant in his heart for so 
long ; he bowed his head and was content. He 
tried to remember how Annie once had seemed to 
be the only thing that he wanted in the world. 
But even the mere impression would not return ; 
it was lost in what he now endured, as a candle is 
lost in the broad light of morning. 

It was for him, then, the Day of Judgment. 
Ah ! how all the thousand faults and follies of his 
former life rose up before him ! How he had 
forgotten others in his selfishness ! He remem- 
bered his father’s last days ; Jane Anne with her 
helplessness, her little anxieties ; his own careless 
boyhood, his recklessness, his idleness, his wasted 
opportunities, his vain self-assurance ; the blind 
madness of his love for Annie. 

He passed it all in review, as it were, under 
Dinah’s deep searching eyes 5 lie buried his face in 


228 


OYEB THE HILLS 


the grass, and burned with shame as he thought 
of her. Why, why had he been so blind ? Why 
had the memory of her as he saw her first not 
been sufficient to preserve him from this ? Then 
little by little the noise of the whimpering burn 
mixed with his thoughts that loosened their hold 
on reality and went off into dreams. 

The sense of some great disaster was upon him. 
He struggled with something heavy and intangible 
that he could not shake off. Then Dinah was 
standing beside him, and she looked at him full 
and straight. He saw her face, her white kind 
hands, her bright abundant hair. 

4 Is there anything in life more precious than 
what I am giving up ? ’ he asked. ‘Yes’ (he 
thought), she answered, and looked at him long 
and steadily, ‘ Honour. ’ 

Lewis wakened with a start, and tried to shake 
off the evil oppression of the dream. But it hung 
about him, a nameless horror, a sense of approach- 
ing disaster that he could not account for, even by 
the thought that Dinah was leaving the next 
day. 

lie scarcely spoke to her all that evening. She 
and Jane Anne sat up till a late hour, discussing 
plans for the future. Lewis took scarcely any 
part in the conversation ; he did not even care to 
hide his depression ; but Dinah, who had looked 
sad enough in the morning, grew more cheerful, 


OYER THE HILLS 


229 


and she smiled in his face as she bade him good- 
night. 

He drove her to meet the coach the next morn- 
ing, and both were very silent the whole way. 
As they parted, he tried to thank her for all that 
she had done for them. Dinah listened without 
replying. As he took her hand to say good-bye, 
he choked on the words, and could not utter them. 
When she had gone, and he turned homewards 
again, the same sense of disaster was upon him as 
on the night before. So oppressive was it, that 
he looked round the clear sky from east to west to 
see if there were any signs of a coming storm, but 
there was not even the shadow of a cloud to be 
seen. 


CHAPTEK XXIX 


The evening on which Dinah returned to Ubster 
was dark and warm. It had been a day of great 
heat, though the sky was obscured by heavy 
clouds. All the windows in the house were open, 
so that sounds from the harbour and some faint 
freshness from the sea came into the shaded rooms. 

Dinah, well accustomed to lukewarm greetings 
(Mrs. Jerningham never was effusive), could not 
but be struck by a constraint in her mother’s man- 
ner when they met. 

‘ Are you well, mother ? ’ the girl asked. 

Mrs. Jerningham had fidgeted about the room 
for some minutes, pulling up the blinds, and mov- 
ing things on the table : she had scarcely asked 
her daughter a single question about her journey, 
about old Mr. Campbell’s death, or as to how she 
had left Jane Anne. As Dinah spoke, she came 
up and stood before her, clasping and unclasping 
her hands. Dinah rose and laid a hand upon her 
shoulder. 

‘ What is the matter ? ’ she said. ‘ What has 
happened ? Is anything wrong ? Papa told me 


OYEE THE HILLS 


231 . 


lie had a reason for asking me to come home. 
What was it ? ’ As her mother continued silent, 
she went on : ‘Is papa angry about anything ? 
Was he vexed because I stayed away so long ? or 
has he been losing money ? ’ 

‘ No — no — at least, yes— you don’t understand 
— I cannot explain — I must not speak about it — 
I told him you knew nothing.’ 

‘ What on earth do you mean ? ’ said Dinah. 
Then she inquired, ‘ Is papa in the library ? ’ 

£ I — I think so — I think I heard him say that he 
was coming in early — he does not know that you 
have come home — I am sure he ’ll be annoyed 
about Jane Anne ; but, after all, she ’s a widow 
now, and ought to be able to live on very little.’ 

‘ I don’t know what you ’re talking about,’ said 
Dinah. She turned abruptly and left the room, 
walked downstairs, and crossed the hall. At the 
door of the office she met a clerk. 

‘ Mr. Jerningham is engaged just now, Miss,’ 
he said discreetly, seeing Dinah about to enter the 
library. 

‘ Who is with him ? ’ asked Dinah, and he 
named a lawyer in the town, a man she knew 
quite well. She opened the door and went in. 

“Well, papa, I’ve come home,’ she said. 
‘ How do you do, Mr. Field ? ’ She shook hands 
with the lawyer, and Mr. Jerningham gave her a 
hurried kiss. 


232 


OVER TI1E HILLS 


‘ Go away ; I am busy just now,’ he said. 

4 I want to speak to you for a moment before 
you go out, papa. I ’ve got a note for you from 
Lewis Campbell.’ 

Jerningham exchanged a quick glance with the 
other man. 4 From Lewis Campbell,’ he repeated 
slowly. 

4 I have just returned from Ubster,’ said Dinah, 
in explanation to the lawyer, who had risen at her 
entrance, and stood awkwardly by the table. 

Jerningham put his thumbs into the armholes 
of his waistcoat and opened his round eyes wide. 

4 Don’t let me hear you mention the name of 
that confounded young villain again,’ he said. 
4 Throw the note into the fire ; I don’t want his 
letter. ’ 

4 What do you mean, papa ? ’ 

4 Has your mother not told you ? ’ he asked. 

4 Told me what ? I have heard nothing. ’ 

Mr. Field coughed, and held out his hand to say 
good-bye, evidently wishing to be gone, but Jer- 
ningham ignored his action. 

4 Ah, well, I shall do so then. Your young 
friend has been making a fine thing of it lately. 
He ’s just been going a little too far ; forged my 
name for fifty pounds. What do you say to that, 
Dinah ? Field has just been here to talk the mat- 
ter over with me. ’ lie looked at her triumphantly. 
4 How, you ’ve heard, go upstairs, and leave us.’ 


OYER TIIE HILLS 


233 


c In a minute, ’ Dinah answered. 4 I don’ t think 
I quite understood you, papa. Who do you say 
has forged your name ? ’ She rested one hand on 
the table as she stood looking at the two men. * 
While at Glarn she had got sunburnt, so that if 
her face was pale, it did not show. Her voice 
was clear and unshaken. 

4 I said Lewis Campbell' said Jerningham. 

6 And Mr. Field will say so too, and show you the 
evidence, if you like ; he ’s got it all there as clear 
as daylight. ’ 

4 Oh, perhaps better not . . . young lady,’ mur- 
mured the lawyer. Jerningham sat unmoved, 
looking at his daughter. 

Dinah turned to Mr. Field. 4 I should like, if 
you don’t mind,’ she said gravely, 4 to hear some 
of the reasons you have for making such an ex- 
traordinary charge. ’ 

4 Ah, well, ’ he said, hesitating, and looking to 
see if Mr. Jerningham wished him to proceed, 

4 the fact is that the evidence is very simple. You 
have the forged cheque, taken from Mr. Jerning- 
ham ’s cheque-book, which was presented at the 
bank in London, enclosed in a half -sheet of paper, 
which is of rather unusual texture, and which is 
always used in your father’s office.’ 

4 The money was given for the cheque ? ’ 

4 Yes, unfortunately, it was not till afterwards 
that it was suspected to be a forgery. The money 


234 


OYER THE HILLS 


was given to a respectable-looking elderly woman, 
whom the police as yet have quite failed to trace.’ 
‘ And what in the world do you suppose that 
* Lewis Campbell has to do with a respectable-look- 
ing elderly woman and a bank in London ? ’ 

Mr. Field smiled. He drew from his pocket a 
sheet of paper. It had been folded, and a bit was 
torn off the top of the sheet. ‘Now,’ he said, 
‘ if you will look at this, Miss Jerningham, I think 
you will understand the case. The cheque was 
handed in enclosed in this half-sheet of paper, 
which had evidently been torn off a letter in a 
hurry. You will see on the edge of it the stamp 
of Mr. Jerningham’s house, which, however, could 
not have betrayed who sent it ; but also, by some 
strange oversight, the person who sent the cheque 
had not observed that your father had written at 
the foot of the page the date of the letter. It is 
in Mr. Jerningham’s handwriting ; and on turning 
up his books, you will see, if you choose, that the 
only letter he wrote on that day was 4 4 to Lewis 
Campbell.” ’ 

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Jerningham, ‘I wrote to him 
to tell him that in future I would have no more to 
do with him. I sent him his salary, and told him 
I washed my hands of him. ’ 

‘ That was after you quarrelled, I remember,’ 
said Dinah. She turned again to Mr. Field. 

‘ Please go on,’ she said. 


OVEE THE HILLS 


235 


‘Oh,’ he answered, ‘it’s quite clear. The 
young man was in want of money, had been gam- 
bling in fact, and lost a good deal. He knew bet- 
ter than to try to draw the money in Ubster, so 
he asked some one whom he knew in London to 
do it for him, or else he sent the cheque by way 
of payment. He was in a hurry, probably greatly 
excited, and he enclosed the cheque in the first 
half-sheet of paper he could find. ’ 

4 Is that likely ? ’ 

Mr. Field blinked. 

4 Likely or not, it ’s done, as you see,’ said her 
father shortly. 4 There can be no doubt about it. 
Well, what do you say, Dinah ? ’ 

Dinah took them both in with her full, steady 
glance, then she said in her usual deliberate man- 
ner, 4 Whatever proofs any one can bring forward, 
I shall always say the same thing. ’ 

4 That it ’s not true ? ’ said her father. 

4 That it is a most damnable lie, ’ said Miss Jer- 
ningham, and she walked quietly out of the room. 
There was an instant of dead silence. 

4 Tut, tut, tut ! ’ said Jerningham. He had 
got very red. The other man too had flushed, 
and stood awkwardly, not knowing how to take 
the thing. 

At that time of day such words, on the lips of a 
young lady, were even more unheard of than they 
would be now ; that a girl like Dinah Jerning- 


236 


OYER THE HILLS 


ham could have uttered them was almost unbe- 
lievable. 

Mr. Field already imagined himself retailing 
the anecdote to incredulous and astounded friends. 

Jerningham’s sensibilities, we know, were not 
delicate, but a blow had been struck at them quite 
in his own style, and it had taken effect. He was 
very deeply annoyed. He made an attempt to 
continue the conversation, but the lawyer pres- 
ently took his leave, and before the street door 
had well closed behind him, was chuckling to him- 
self at the remembrance of the scene. 

‘ Where is Dinah ? ’ Mr. Jerningham demand- 
ed, going up to the drawing-room. 

His wife looked up in an agitated way at his 
tone ; but Dinah demanded calmly, ‘ What is it, 
papa ? 5 

He broke into a storm of abuse, first of Lewis 
Campbell, then of Dinah, of the way that she had 
spoken. ‘ Monstrous ! Impossible! I was ashamed 
of you. Ho man ever heard of such a thing ! 9 

‘ What has she done ? What did she say ? ’ 
asked her mother, who was nervous, and kept 
looking from the angry man to Dinah’s unmoved 
face. 

‘ Say ! ’ cried Jerningham. ‘ She swore like a 
trooper — before Field too — he ’ll tell all the town.’ 
lie turned to Dinah, ‘ Never let me hear you men- 
tion that young blackguard’s name in my hearing 


OYER THE HILLS 


237 


again, Dinah. When he ’s got ten years’ penal 
servitude for this, you ’ll perhaps see then who 
was in the right. ’ 

‘ Who will pay for Jane Anne’s keep now f ’ 
said Mrs. Jerningham in the pause which followed. 
Dinah had not spoken. 

‘ Let her go to the workhouse,’ said Jerning- 
ham, 6 or to Timbuctoo. She shan’t have a penny 
from me.’ 

‘ There was no unnecessary expense about the 
old man’s funeral, anyhow ; it was all done in the 
neighbourhood,’ his wife went on. ‘ And Jane 
Anne wears very little crape, Dinah tells me. 
One good bonnet should last a quiet widow like 
her for years. ’ 

Dinah had gone away. She stood now in her 
own room. She had clenched her hands so tightly, 
that her nails had left red marks on the palms. 
She smoothed them out, but from her face the 
traces of anger had not yet disappeared. Iler 
thick eyebrows were drawn together in a frown 
as she knelt down and began, with her usual neat- 
ness and dispatch, to unpack the boxes that she 
had brought with her from Glarn. 


CHAPTER XXX 


4 I ! no, I have heard nothing about Glarn since 
we left. I have been too anxious about my uncle,’ 
said Annie. She sat in the full light opposite to 
Lord Glarn, but her face did not change at all as 
he told her about Lewis. 

4 It is monstrous ! extravagant ! I never heard 
of anything so horrible. I am going to Ubster at 
once. I have some influence there, and I may be 
able to do something. I don’t believe that even 
Mr. Jerningham believes a word of it ; but they 
had a quarrel, and so he has chosen to fasten this 
ridiculous charge upon Campbell. ’ 

4 When will you go ? ’ Annie asked. 

4 At once, as soon as I possibly can of course. ’ 

4 Ah ! ’ said Annie, with a little sigh. 

4 You are sorry ? ’ he inquired anxiously. 

She shook her head. 4 1 meant, I hoped you 
would not go away just yet, we are so lonely here, 

and uncle is so ill. I Oh, but it is better 

that you should go.’ She watched him through 
her eyelashes, noting the effect of her words. 

He rose and walked two or three times up and 


OYER THE HILLS 


239 


down the room, then came and leaned on the back 
of her chair. 4 I must go, my dear, I must ; I 
would do anything else in the world to please you, 
but I can't stand this. 5 Annie moved her head 
an inch till she rested her smooth cheek against 
his hand. 4 You see, 5 he went on, 4 I feel as if I 
owed Campbell something, 5 he looked down at 
her with the expression she disliked, because she 
did not understand what he meant by it. 4 1 do 
not for a moment suggest that you have done any- 
thing that is not quite honourable. I take the 
whole blame in the matter. I did it with my eyes 
open. I would do it again to-morrow. It would 
have ruined both your life and his if you had gone 

off together, as you meant to do ; but 5 he 

paused, 4 there are two sides to every question, 
and taking everything into consideration, I am 
not going to let him go to prison on a false charge 
if I can help it. I ’ll pay his counsel, if he ’ll let 
me, and get the best in Scotland. I ’ll go bail for 
him anyway, at once. 5 

4 If it is a false charge, 5 murmured Annie. 

He dropped her hand, which he had taken in 
his, as if it had been red hot ; then, as if annoyed 
by the violence of the action, he moved very gently 
away from her. 4 What were we saying ? Ah, 
good-night ; I shall see you when I return from 
Ubster. 5 He stood at the door for a moment and 
looked back. 


240 


OYER THE HILLS 


4 You have no message for Lewis, I presume ? ’ 

‘ What could I say ? 5 said Annie. 

She sat for a long time thinking after he had 
gone. 4 I wish I hadn’t done it ! I wish I hadn’t 
done it ! ’ she said to herself. 4 How could I have 
known though ? ’ She took up the little desk 
from the table and went carefully over its con- 
tents, burning several of them ; some bills from 
her dressmaker ; some of Lewis’s old love letters ; 
finally, a note from Yere, which she read with a 
sudden smile before she saw it shrivel up. 

It had begun to grow dark before she was aware. 
When at last she raised her head and looked about 
the room, the corners were hidden by the dusk. 
Annie had the most intense dislike to the dark ; it 
was with a trembling all through her, and sidelong 
glances at the dusky end of the room, that she 
made her way to the bell to ring for lights. She 
gave a shuddering sigh of relief when the door 
opened and the landlady came in. She took up 
one of the candles and carried it into her uncle’s 
room. 

4 Ah, you have come at last, Annie,’ he said 
faintly. 4 I am thirsty. Lord Glarn stayed a 
long time. ’ 

4 No, not very long.’ 

4 Why does he come here so often, child ? ’ 

4 To inquire for you, uncle,’ she answered. 

4 He is very kind. I wish you had brought him 


OYER THE I1ILLS 


241 


in. He has a sweet voice and a cool hand. I 
like to feel him near.’ 

Annie gave him a spoonful of some soup, and 
sat down negligently by the side of the bed. 

4 Have you not heard from Lewis yet, Annie ? ’ 
4 Ho, uncle ; he has never written. ’ 

4 Ah, poor lad ! He would have much to bur- 
den him after his father’s death.’ 

4 Yes, a great deal.’ 

After a silence he stretched out his hand, feel- 
ing for hers. 4 You ’ve not been like yourself of 
late, Annie. I fear you are not happy. What 
will you do when I am gone, child ? ’ 

Annie answered sweetly, 4 1 think I shall go 
into a convent, uncle. The Reverend Mother 
wants me to come to them. ’ 


CHAPTER XXXI 


As Mr. Jerningham came out of the Court House, 
he was delayed on all sides by questions of sym- 
pathisers. He answered shortly, with the air of 
a man who knew he was expected to show tri- 
umph, but had determined to behave with mag- 
nanimity. The whole of Ubster was greatly ex- 
cited over the trial. 

‘ He hasn’t a chance. He didn’t offer even a 
figment of a defence,’ said Jerningham, when he 
reached home. His wife had besieged him with 
futile questions. 

Dinah had never asked him a single word about 
it on either day. She sat sewing with her head 
bent, as if she were deaf and heard nothing, as her 
father explained how Lewis had been asked if he 
could in any way account for the fact of the cheque 
having been enclosed in a letter belonging to him. 

‘ I have no explanation to offer,’ had been his 
only reply. 

‘ I should think he had not,’ said Jerningham, 
laughing as he repeated this. 

Since the day when she had so astonished Mr. 


OYER THE I1ILLS 


243 


Field and her father, Lewis Campbell’s name had 
never crossed Dinah’s lips, nor did she appear to 
take the slightest interest in the whole affair. 
She rose now in the middle of her father’s speech 
and folded up her work. 

‘ Where are you going to, Dinah ? ’ 

‘I’m going to see Janie,’ she answered, with- 
out a change of voice. 

Mrs. Jerningliam looked flustered. 

‘ Tell her then,’ said her father, ‘ that as soon 
as this business is at an end, I ’ll take her here. 
I ’ll give her house room again.’ 

‘ She ’ll have enough, I daresay, to provide her 
own clothes,’ said Mrs. Jerningham, adding, 4 The 
child won’t cost much for a year or two, and, of 
course, she will not have to give anything to Lewis 
there. ’ 

‘ Where ? ’ said Dinah, slightly knitting her 
brows. 

‘ In prison ! ’ said Jerningham, with a chuckle. 

‘ I shall give her your message,’ answered the 
girl, and her father’s smile subsided suddenly as 
she looked at him. 

‘ Lewis will be in the house — he ’s out on bail — 
so I suppose he ’ll be still with Jane Anne,’ said 
Mrs. Jerningham. But Jerningham did not an- 
swer. He looked very black, but he did not for- 
bid Dinah to go to see her cousin, as his wife had 
expected. The truth was that he now knew by 


244 


OVEE THE HILLS 


experience that whenever Dinah’s will and his 
came into collision, it was not the girl who was 
worsted. 

Dinah arrived at the small house where Jane 
Anne had taken up a temporary residence, and 
was received by Phemie, who opened the door to 
her without a word. The old woman had become 
devoted to Dinah during her stay at Glarn ; but 
the name of Jerningham was now hateful to her, 
and she struggled between her admiration of the 
girl and her loyalty to Lewis. 

Dinah had to wait for some minutes before her 
cousin appeared. She turned to greet her as the 
door opened, but she had only time to give one 
glance at her pitiful, tear-sodden face before she 
saw that Lewis was behind her. His mouth was 
set, his eyes fixed on Dinah as he stood in the 
doorway. Dinah held out her arms to Jane Anne, 
who sank into them sobbing ; she did not even 
hold out her hand to Lewis, but drew her cousin to 
the sofa ; there she sat down by her, and let her 
hide her face on her breast, and cry as much as 
she liked. Lewis, standing grimly looking on, 
envied his stepmother. 

‘Yes, yes, Janie, you do not need to tell me 
anything. My poor Janie, my dear, my dear. ’ 

Dinah went on murmuring soft words to her, 
patting her and soothing her a3 if she had been a 
child. Still she never spoke to Lewis, nor he to 


OVER, THE HILLS 


245 


her. lie stood looking down at them, until at 
last Jane Anne’s sobs grew less piteous, and she 
drew breath more calmly, then he said to her — 

‘ I am not worth all this, mammy. Ask Dinah. ’ 

At this Jane Anne raised herself and wiped her 
eyes, still clinging to Dinah, as a child clings to 
its mother. She looked from one to the other of 
them. 

‘ I don’t know what you mean, Lewis,’ she said. 

Then, looking at Dinah, she exclaimed suddenly, 
‘ Oh, Dinah, you do love him, don’t you, my 
dear ? ’ and the next instant, becoming aware of 
her indiscreet words, her distraction increased. 
She murmured something about hearing the child 
crying, and rising in great confusion, she fairly 
fled from the room. 

After the door had closed behind her, the silence 
lasted unbroken for two or three seconds. Then 
Lewis laughed, a laugh that was curiously out of 
place. 

‘ Poor mammy ! ’ he said, and stood again 
silent. 

‘ Are you coming to the Court- house to-morrow, 
Miss Jerningham ? ’ he asked at length. 

‘Ho.’ 

‘ It will go against me, I expect. ’ 

‘ I know that. ’ 

‘ Yet you will not come to see the ’ 

tated for a moment, ‘ the last of me. ’ 


he hesi- 


24G 


OYER THE HILLS 


‘ Ho.’ 

‘ You will take care of Janie and the child ; 
look after them somehow when ... I am away. ’ 

‘Yes, I will. ’ 

‘ May I ask you one other favour, Dinah ? ’ 

Dinah sat on the sofa hanging her head. She 
nodded without speaking. He saw that she twist- 
ed her hands, her white, kind hands, together on 
her knee as if she would break one with the other, 
but she never looked up. 

‘ You will not forget altogether ? You will re- 
member me sometimes ? ’ He paused, waiting for 
her to speak. 

She answered slowly, without looking up— 

‘ Every hour of the day ; every hour of the 
night ; wherever I am — in my dreams — in my 
grave even , if 1 am there before you. ’ 

He held out his hand. ‘ Good-bye, then.’ 

‘ Good-bye.’ 

‘ Won’t you look at me, Dinah ? ’ 

‘ I can’t, ’ she said, turning her head away. 

‘ I do not need to tell you anything ? ’ he asked. 

‘ Nothing.’ 

‘ Very well then, good-bye.’ 

‘ Good-bye,’ repeated Dinah, without looking 
at him, and he went away. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


‘ So that is all,’ said Lord Glarn. ‘ I can do noth- 
ing more for you. ’ 

‘ Nothing, thank you.’ 

He sat looking at Lewis as if uncertain whether 
to add something more or not. The jail at Ubster 
was very rarely used, and the little room in which 
they sat was damp and very chill. The white- 
washed walls were streaked with green lines where 
the damp had trickled down them : the small win- 
dow that looked out on the market-place was 
ostentatiously guarded with iron bars : the floor 
was laid with bricks. The furniture consisted of 
a bed, a table, and one chair, covered with moulder- 
ing haircloth. Lewis had given this seat to his 
visitor, and he sat on the corner of the table in a 
boyish attitude that contrasted oddly with the 
deep lines that were already marked upon his face. 

‘I’m more sorry than I can say, Campbell,’ 
continued the Marquis. ‘ It was an extraordinary 
thing, the whole affair. This hasty sentence is 
absurd. Could you not have at least attempted a 
defence ? ’ 


248 


OYER THE HILLS 


Lewis shook his head. 

4 Come, tell me,’ continued Lord Glarn, address- 
ing him in just the winning way he used to 
speak to him when Lewis was a boy ; 4 come, 
tell me, Lewis. I ’ve an idea somehow that you 
know something about this that you have not 
told. 1 

Lewis’s face grew hard. 

4 Have you no notion at all who it was that did 
it? 1 

Lewis answered nothing. 

4 Do you know how that letter of Jerningham’s 
came into another person’s possession ? ’ 

Lewis raised his head. 4 If I do,’ he said, 4 I 
do not choose to tell — either you or any one else, 
my lord.’ 

4 Well, well, all right, I am sorry I asked,’ said 
the Marquis. 4 Only,’ he added, 4 1 say to you 
now, as I think I once said to you before, that it ’s 
not easy, and not always very wise to hide any- 
thing in this world. ’ 

4 1 am not good at concealing anything,’ said 
Lewis, 4 but I can always be silent at least.’ 

4 What are you going to do when you come back 
after this — it is a short sentence ? ’ 

4 1 shall not come back, ’ said Lewis, setting his 
teeth. 

4 Ho ? Well, perhaps you are right. May I 
inquire what you mean to do ? ’ 


OYER THE IIILLS 


249 


* Go to the war and try to get killed, ’ he an- 
swered. 

The Marquis rose to go. ‘ I have something to 
tell you, Campbell,’ he said ; £ I do not know how 
you will take it. I thought I should prefer to tell 
you myself rather than let you hear it later on. ’ 
He paused ; Lewis nodded to signify his attention. 
The muscles about his mouth were working 
strangely. Lord Glarn blushed a little, faintly, 
like a timid girl, as he spoke with his eyes cast 
down : ‘ Since I last saw you — since she came to 
London — Annie Fraser has promised to marry 
me.’ 

He looked up suddenly, startled by the peal of 
laughter that rang through the room. 

He stood still, frowning, but Lewis stopped 
laughing and held out his hand. 

‘ Forgive me, sir, I am very rude. I was amused 
— at something I remembered.’ 

He stood with his hand stretched out ; Glarn 
hesitated, then turned away without taking it. 

‘ Better not,’ he said ; ‘ I won’t ask you what 
you mean. Good-bye, Campbell.’ He looked at 
him again, adding, with the sudden catching of 
his breath that was his way of showing feeling, 
‘ There are worse things, believe me, than being 
unjustly accused ; worse things even than being 
unjustly condemned. It ’s a short sentence after 
all ; perhaps we ’ll meet again.’ 


250 


OVEE THE HILLS 


He turned away with his downcast, pale face, 
but Lewis sprang after him. 

‘ Oh, ’ he called eagerly, £ don’t go like this ! ’ 
and would have detained him, but Glarn drew 
himself away, and would not look at him again. 

He followed the turnkey along the narrow, 
whitewashed passages that rang to their steps, 
coming out into the sunshine in the street, with- 
out noticing the salutations of the men who 
touched their caps to him. 

He was driving himself, without a groom, and 
went quickly through the town, across the broad 
market-place with its groups of lounging country 
people, who stared at him as he passed, then out 
along the hard, white road that ran by the edges 
of the cliff. 

As he drove past the grim walls of Miss Mac- 
neil’s Establishment, he looked up at the windows, 
causing quite a flutter in the heads of two or three 
of a new generation of schoolgirls who were at 
their lessons in the bleak rooms. 

It was but a mile beyond that where the road 
curved sharply round the little bay, under whose 
steep cliffs the boat had been broken up that night. 

It was a fresh morning ; the waves danced be- 
low, and the wind that blew gently from the east 
was laden with that indescribable breath and 
savour of the sea which has the power to stir some 
people as nothing else can do. Lord Glarn stopped 


OVEE THE HILLS 


251 


and looked down, then looked up to the sky, then 
looked out to sea, as if he pondered in his mind an 
idea that was familiar to him, and not disagree- 
able. But after a minute he drew himself up 
briskly. 

‘Hot yet, not yet,’ he muttered, ‘some other 
time perhaps ; it is an extreme remedy,’ and he 
drove on to Glarn. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


A week later, wearied and impatient, for time 
hung heavy on his hands just then, Lord Glarn 
came back to London and went at once to see 
Annie. 

The people within were long in answering his 
knock, and he began to wonder if the old man was 
worse — was dead— and to think of what Annie 
would do left alone in the world, until he had a 
right to protect her. When the door was opened 
at last, he thought that the landlady looked at 
him curiously as she told him that Miss Fraser was 
not at home. 

4 Ah ! then Father Fraser is better, I suppose. 
I am very glad to hear it. I shall come in and see 
him.’ 

The woman admitted him, and closed the door 
again before she answered. 

She was of very ordinary type, a plump, middle- 
aged woman, with tightened lips and hard eyes, 
but on the whole looked neither dishonest nor 
unkindly. He was struck by the mystery in her 
manner as she showed him in to the parlour and 
closed the door. 


OYER THE PULLS 


253 


‘ My lord/ she said in a low voice, with a glance 
to make sure that the door of the adjoining room 
was shut, 4 you need not wait for Miss Fraser. 
She will not be home till eleven o’clock. She has 
gone out to dine somewhere . . . with a gentle- 
man.’ 

The Marquis did not know of any man of 
Annie’s acquaintance likely to have taken her out 
to dine anywhere ; but, after all, she might have 
a dozen such acquaintances that he knew nothing 
about. Fie nodded impatiently as he moved to 
the door. 

4 Very well ; I certainly cannot wait till she 
comes in then ; but as Father Fraser is better, I 
shall go into his room for a little. ’ 

4 Father Fraser is not better, sir, but much worse 
these last two days. I took in a letter to him an 
hour ago, and I thought that he seemed scarcely 
himself. ’ 

4 But I understood you to say that Miss Fraser 
had gone out ? ’ 

4 Miss Fraser has gone out to dine with a gentle- 
man,’ the woman repeated. 

4 They have a nurse for him then ? ’ 

4 Ho ; no nurse . 5 

She screwed up her mouth and looked at him as 
if she were uncertain whether to proceed with 
speech or not, then added, 4 Ho nurse ; not much 
nursing either, sir. I ’ve an idea that them dress- 


254 


OVER THE HILLS 


ings ought to have been changed this evening, but 
I shan’t be the one to do it, lest he die in my 
’ands. I will have no responsibility with any one 
in my ’ouse — daren’t do it — but I look in from 
time to time, as I ’m able, in case ’e should be slip- 
pin’ away. It ’s not that they ’re ill off either, 
sir, for Miss sent me to get a cheque cashed for 
her not so long ago — at Edwards, for fifty pounds 
— so that would pay a nurse surely ! ’ 

‘ I shall go in and see him, then,’ said Lord 
Glarn, when at last she drew breath. 

The woman opened the bedroom door, and he 
entered, motioning to her to leave him alone. 

As she went away she looked keenly at his face, 
but it expressed nothing. 

A screen hid the bed from the doorway. Lord 
Glarn stepped gently in and stood looking about 
him. The room was hot, close, and very untidy ; 
dust lay thick on the furniture. The blind was 
pulled askew, so that the evening light fell in, 
streaming across the tumbled bed, where the old 
man lay in an uneasy sleep. His head was damp 
with sweat, and was bound round with a handker- 
chief ; his shirt was open at the throat, and his 
face was yellow, with drawn bps and blind, ghastly 
eyes. His arms were thrown out on the coverlid, 
and he moved painfully and groaned, as if he suf- 
fered in his sleep. 

Lord Glarn stood still, looking round and round 


OVER THE KILLS 


255 


the room, noting everything ; the ashes of yester- 
day’s fire in the grate ; a bottle of medicine 
marked 4 Every two hours ’ on the table. ( 4 She 
will not be here till eleven,’ he thought.) A 
small jug of milk stood beside it. He poured 
some into a cup and tasted it ; it was sour. He 
looked at his watch — it was eight o’clock — then 
he sat down by the side of the bed. 

Presently the blind man turned and threw out 
his hands with a sigh. 

4 There is some one in the room ; is it you at 
last, Annie ? ’ he said. 

4 Do you know me, sir ? Can I do anything for 
you ? ’ the Marquis asked eagerly ; but Father 
Fraser’s mind was wandering, and he scarcely 
heard. 

Again he beat with his hands on the quilt. 

4 Annie, dear ; Annie ! Annie ! Don’t you 
hear ? I am very tired now. Could you put on 
a fresh bandage ? Ah ! you are going out. Very 
well, very well, I can wait.’ 

He wiped his damp face with one trembling 
hand, and murmured on, 4 Another hour ! another 
hour or two, ’ then awaking and recovering con- 
sciousness, he asked diffidently — 

4 Is it you, Mrs. Willis ? Would you move me 
a little on my right side ? I am very tired. Will 
Miss Fraser soon be in ? I should be glad to have 
another bandage put on now.’ 


256 


OVER THE HILLS 


4 It is not the landlady ; it is I — Glarn ; Annie 
will be in soon, sir. Will you allow me to try to 
make you more comfortable ? ’ 

Father Fraser smiled and shook his head, strok- 
ing the young man’s hand feebly with his own. 

‘Ho, no ; you must not trouble ; I must have 
patience.’ 

Lord Glarn summoned the landlady again. 

4 Show me where those dressings are kept,’ he 
said, 4 and bring a light here, and I will try to 
make him more comfortable. ’ 

4 Well, sir,’ she began, 4 1 ’m not liking to take 
the responsibility,’ but he cut short her answer 
and bade her do what he told her. The old man’s 
mind had wandered again, and he thought that 
Lord Glarn was the doctor. He was not very 
skilful, but his hands were deft and gentle, and 
before long he had made Father Fraser much more 
comfortable. He gave him the medicine, laid him 
back on the pillows, and in a few minutes the old 
man had dropped asleep, breathing more quietly. 

The Marquis went to the window to draw down 
the blind. As he did so, he noticed the birdcage 
hanging there ; and remembering how Annie used 
to cover it up, to prevent the bird from singing, 
fearing the candlelight might startle it, and that 
it would awaken the old man, he looked about for 
something to throw over it. The bird was not 
visible, so he glanced inside the cage ; on the 


O Y E II THE HILLS 


257 


floor the tiny creature was lying on its back, dead. 
He examined the little dishes that hung at the 
sides of the cage ; they were empty ; there was 
neither seed nor water. 

He stood for a moment or two looking down at 
the dead bird, then went back, and sat down again 
by the bed. 

After a little the sick man wakened and stretched 
out his hand. 

‘ Ah ! it is you, Lord Glarn ! Are you still 
here ? I have been asleep.’ 

‘ Yes ; I shall stay with you till Annie comes 
in. Can I do anything for you, sir ? ’ 

The blind man feebly stretched out his arm and 
began fumbling under the pillow. At last he 
drew out a letter. The envelope had already been 
opened, and he took out the letter and held it 
towards the Marquis. 

£ Is there light enough for you to see ? ’ he said. 
‘ I think so ; I feel the light on the table there. 
Will you read this to me, my lord ? ’ 

‘ Oh, I think you are scarcely able to attend to 
letters to-night, ’ said Lord Glarn, who seeing that 
his mind was still slightly wandering, hesitated, 
fearing to excite him. 

‘ It is a letter from my Bishop ; I want to know 
what he says. I shall be much obliged if you can 
read it to me. ’ 

‘ If I can make it out, sir, but the light is 


258 


OYER THE HILLS 


dim,’ Lord Glarn answered, trying to make an 
excuse. 

He thought he would read the thing through to 
himself first, in order to make sure that there was 
nothing in it which could agitate the old man. 

He read the first lines without realising what it 
was ; it began without address. 

‘ 1 am writing to you to : night to let you know 
that as far as I am concerned your secret is safe. 
I have neither tried to discover, nor do I care to 
know why you did this thing. I have taken the 
punishment, because I, at least, do not forget that 
we were lovers once, and because I promised you 
long ago that I would never tell any one about 
our relations to one another. Let me advise you 
though, before you marry Lord Glarn, to make 
sure that you have destroyed a contract of mar- 
riage that you were once going to sign with me. ’ 

The letter ended without a signature, but it was 
dated underneath ‘ Ubster, 8th September.’ Lord 
Glarn read it twice over. He looked at it again 
and again ; then he took up the envelope that lay 
on the bed. It was addressed to Annie. He bent 
forwards. 

‘ This is a letter which you have opened by mis- 
take, sir,’ he said to the old man. ‘ It is not for 
you ; it is a letter of Annie’s.’ 

4 Ah ! I have made a mistake then. Is it of 
any importance ? ’ 


OVER THE HILLS 


259 


‘ It is from a young friend, ’ said the Marquis. 

He took the letter and replaced it in its envel- 
ope, and moved the light so that it should not fall 
across the pillows, and resumed his watch by the 
bed. Father Fraser soon dozed off again. The 
young man sat on for another hour, watching him 
in silence, the candle from behind throwing a faint 
light on his inscrutable, melancholy face. 

6 A blind witness ,’ he thought, looking at the 
poor head on the pillow, with its sunken, sightless 
eyes. 

The clock struck nine — ten — still Lord Glarn 
never moved, except to shift the old man into an 
easier position, or to bend over him to see if he 
still slept. 

At last, shortly after eleven o’clock, there was 
a sound of voices in the hall, the door of the ad- 
joining room opened, and he heard Annie exclaim, 
‘ Come in ; just wait for a minute whilst I look in 
and see if my uncle is asleep ! ’ 

She turned the handle of the door softly, and 
stepping forwards, looked round the screen. She 
had on a cloak lined with pale blue, and the hood 
of it had flattened her hair down on her forehead, 
framing her little face very tenderly. 

In the dim light she did not at first perceive 
Lord Glarn as he sat quite still. When she did, 
she gave a little cry, as if she had seen a ghost. 
In an instant, however, she recovered her compo- 


260 


OVER THE HILLS 


sure, threw a swift glance over her shoulder tow- 
ards the half -open door, then came forward, hold- 
ing her finger to her lip to signify that he was not 
to waken her uncle. He drew his arm from under 
the old man’s head and took her hand ; it was 
cold and trembling. He looked at her and ex- 
plained his visit. 

Again, as she listened, Annie threw a backward 
glance at the door. She drew her hand away. 

‘ Uncle is asleep,’ she said, looking at him with 
flickering eyelids. 

‘ Yes ; he seems to require little attention.’ 

She looked at him quickly, trying to catch his 
meaning. 

‘ Oh ! he is asleep a great part of the time,’ she 
said evasively. 

6 Your bird is asleep too ,’ said the Marquis. 

Annie smiled, relieved. She walked up to the 
cage, looked into it, and threw a handkerchief 
over it. 

‘ Yes ; he always is by this time,’ she answered 
serenely. 

‘ Shall we come into the other room ? ’ he asked. 

Annie turned swiftly, as if she had forgotten 
something. 

‘ Oh, yes,’ she said ; ‘ wait a moment,’ and she 
slipped out, closing the door behind her. 

He heard her in a low voice saying something 
to the person in the next room. 


OYER THE IIILLS 


261 


When she came back, he said, ‘ I shall not stay 
longer to-night. I shall come and see you to- 
morrow. I have something to say to you.’ 

He had placed the letter again under her uncle’s 
pillow. 

On her first entrance she had been too much 
surprised by seeing him to notice it at all. 

‘ I am sorry that I did not know you were com- 
ing, or I should have come home earlier, ’ she said. 

He did not answer, but followed her silently 
into the sitting-room. 

‘ Your friend has gone ? ’ he said, looking at 
her, smiling. 

Annie seemed for her strangely agitated. She 
stood under the gas lamp by the table twisting 
her fingers together. 

6 Ah ! he is coming back ; he has forgotten 
something,’ said the Marquis, hearing a step in the 
hall. 

Annie started, and then threw out her two 
hands with a little gesture of abandonment, for it 
was too late ; the door opened, and a man stood 
on the threshold. He began to say, 1 1 had for- 
gotten to say, Annie ’ when he saw the Mar- 

quis, and stood still in astonishment. It was his 
cousin Yere. 

They looked at one another for a moment in 
silence, and then Lord Glarn suddenly stepped 
forward. 


262 


OVEK THE HILLS 


‘ I shall bid you good-night,’ he said. ‘ Good- 
night, Vere ; I scarcely expected to see you here.’ 

The door closed behind him : he walked up the 
quiet street in the warm night air, and lifting his 
head, he suddenly laughed aloud, just as Lewis 
Campbell had laughed when they sat in the jail at 
Ubster. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


4 Death is the great consoler , 5 said the Marquis ; 
his pale face quivered for a moment with a smile, 
but Annie did not see. She sat with downcast 
eyes, her hands folded on her lap, a touching little 
figure of grief. 

4 Yes,’ she assented with a sigh, as if she had 
deeply understood the remark. 

4 Your uncle’s death was very sudden at the 
end,’ he went on. 4 You cannot have expected it 
last night.’ 

4 No, indeed ; I had hoped that he might have 
lingered on for a long time.’ 

4 But you must not grieve too much,’ he said ; 
£ your uncle has much the best of it now. ’ 

4 lie is with the saints in Paradise,’ said Annie. 
Then she turned with a quick movement, as if , she 
brushed aside the subject. 4 You look ill,’ she 
said. 4 You are worn out. You are miserable ! ’ 

4 That, unfortunately, is nothing new, ’ he said. 

4 But you are right : lam; much more miserable 
even than I used to be. ’ 

Annie softly laid her hand on his. He looked 


2G4 


OVER THE HILLS 


at it curiously as if it were something strange, and 
then let it drop. 

‘ I am going away from this country,’ he said, 
‘ for a long time ’ (he caught his breath sobbingly 
as he spoke), £ and possibly I may not return. ’ 
Annie looked at him in surprise. £ I have some- 
thing to say to you before I go.’ 

The event of her uncle’s death (it had occurred 
rather suddenly in the middle of the previous 
night after Vere and Lord Glarn had gone) had 
driven the remembrance of Lewis's letter from her 
mind at the time. She had read it before she 
went to bed, but had not thought of it again. 
How she looked at the Marquis, wondering what 
he was going to say. 

£ Your uncle asked me to read a letter to him 
last night as I sat beside him,’ he proceeded slowly. 
It suddenly flashed upon Annie what he meant. 
She rose from her chair as if to gain assurance by 
standing up. Lord Glarn rose too, so that they 
stood face to face. 

£ The letter was one addressed to you,’ he said. 

£ But I did not see the envelope, which your uncle 
had opened before I came in, so that I read it un- 
wittingly at first ; then I saw who it was from, 
and what it was about. I understand it all. 
However, it is not my affair. If Lewis Campbell 
chooses to go to prison on your account, it is not 
my place to denounce you. He was generous 


OVEE THE HILLS 


205 


enough, if I remember the words, to say that he 
did not forget that you and he had been lovers ; 
neither shall I forget that you and I have been so 
also.’ He looked down at her little fair head. 
There in that very room, not so long ago, he had 
knelt at her feet, and blind and trembling with 
passion, had laid his head on her knee. He re- 
membered it as he looked at her. 

‘ You do not love me any longer then ? ’ said 
Annie, looking suddenly up into his face with her 
brilliant eyes. 

‘ I ! love you ! Ho, I do not love you.’ He 
paused, and stood looking at her for a moment — 
then went on : ‘ I have seen what I believed to 
be fair turn into something —for which I would 
rather not find a word even in your presence. I 
saw you break your faith with another man, and 
I half believed that you would be faithful to me. 
I saw you neglect that poor, helpless, old man who 
was left under your care, and saw you sicken at 
the sight of suffering which you did nothing to 
lessen. I did not need to find out at last that you 
had been guilty of other things — worse even than 
that. I do not love you,’ he caught his breath 
again, ‘ I loathe you as I never loathed anything 
on earth before— not even my own most miser- 
able life. I hate and despise you ; but more— 
Ah ! how much more ! — I hate and despise 
myself. ’ 


266 


OYER THE HILLS 


All the time that he had been speaking Annie 
had not stirred. 

‘ Then you are going away ? ’ she asked, and as 
he turned to leave the room, ‘ I always liked Lewis 
much the best. Poor Lewis ! ’ she said softly, 
with the artless candour of a child. 

Lord Glarn left the house and walked slowly up 
the narrow, silent street, one side of which was 
darkened by the shadow from the convent wall ; 
the other was white with sunshine. He kept to 
the sunny side, but he shivered like a man that 
has been chilled through. 

‘ So this is the end, ’ he said to himself. ‘ And I 
deserve it. I was not young and hot-headed like 
Campbell. From the first I thought that I had 
matched myself evenly, for I half saw through 
her all the time. I’m a miserable fool.’ He 
walked on in the sunshine with his head bent, 
scarcely looking before him. 4 It is time to do it 
now ; at least, I need not see the sun rise to-mor- 
row.’ 

As he drew near the head of the lane, there 
came a sound of marching feet, and the silent little 
alley was filled all of a sudden with a burst of 
military music and the suffocating roll of drums. 

He stood aside and waited as the regiment filed 
by him along the main street, scattering the peo- 
ple, all intent on their separate errands, and mak- 
ing them pause as it went on its way — hundreds 


OYER THE HILLS 


207 


united with the purpose of one. He thought as 
he watched them of the fate to which they were 
going, forgetting for a moment his own misery. 
As the traffic rushed on again, and the sound of 
the drums grew faint in the distance, he followed 
slowly. ‘ What, after all , 5 he thought, ‘ is the 
little speck of my despair about which I have 
made so much ado 

‘ “ While to my shame I see 
The imminent death of twenty thousand men : 

That for a fantasy and trick of fame 

Go to their graves like beds ; fight for a plot 

Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause.” * 

He stopped short, staring at the line of scarlet now 
disappearing from his view. 

‘ We ’ll try it that way,’ he exclaimed suddenly. 
‘ It will perhaps be less ignoble than the other, 
and the end is the same in both.’ 

He left London that evening. Two days after- 
wards the papers contained the news of ‘ a fatal 
accident to the Marquis of Glarn,’ relating how 
‘ the deceased nobleman ’ had gone out alone in a 
small boat, which must have been capsized by a 
sudden squall. The paragraph ended with, ‘ The 
body has not yet been recovered, and it is thought 
that it must have been carried out to sea.’ 

But on the very day that this announcement 
was published, a man with a pale face walked up 
to a recruiting sergeant in one of the inns in the 


268 


OYER THE HILLS 


suburbs, boldly demanding the Queen’s shilling. 
In spite of his clothing, which was notably pov- 
erty-stricken, there was something about his man- 
ner that made the request surprising. Men, how- 
ever, were urgently wanted, and that was no ob- 
jection. 

4 Your name ? ’ asked the sergeant. 

4 Grant, ’ replied the other. 

4 Christian name ? ’ 

The man hesitated for an instant, then with a 
smile he began — 

4 John Edward Augustus Rich ’ 

4 That ’ll do — one ’s enough, ’ said the sergeant, 
and entered him as John Grant. 

Annie, of course, read the sad news of the death 
of Lord Glarn along with the rest of the world. 
So did the new recruit who had joined Her Maj- 
esty’s forces. There was a sentence at the close 
which both of them read with the same idea in 
their minds — 

4 The Marquis is succeeded by his cousin.’ 


CHAPTER XXXV 


After Lewis had gone to prison, Mr. Jerningham 
had one day come to see his niece. He had never 
seen her since her marriage, and felt confident 
that he was about to behave in a very magnani- 
mous way. She came into the room alone and 
greeted him coldly. 

‘ Hullo ! is this you, Jane Anne ? I should have 
known you anywhere. You ’re not changed at 
all, although you ’re a widow now instead of an 
old maid. Where ’s your baby ? ’ he said ge- 
nially. He then affably proceeded to state the ob- 
ject of his visit, which was to offer her a home in 
his house in the future, subject, as he carefully ex- 
plained, to her paying such small board as she was 
able for herself and the child. £ It will be a mere 
nothing, of course, but it will help to give you a 
feeling of independence,’ he added, as his niece 
kept silence. 

No one was present at the interview, and Jer- 
ningham never alluded to it again ; but he left the 
house after a few minutes, walking with a flushed 
face and an unsteady step, and from that time on- 


270 


OYER THE HILLS 


wards he was never heard to mention Jane Anne’s 
name. She never told either, even to Dinah, what 
she had said to him, and no further suggestion as 
to her coming again to live with them was ever 
made. Mrs. Jerningham continued to speak of 
her niece as usual ; Dinah went to see her nearly 
every day. 

She had taken a tiny house not very far from 
the Jerninghams. Phemie, who formerly used to 
treat her with lofty contempt, now refused to hear 
of being parted from her, and spoke of her to 
others with exaggerated respect. 

At first Mrs. Campbell used to speak of Lewis 
to Dinah as they sat together ; but as time went 
on, his name became between them like the names 
of the dead. At first when they leave us we speak 
of them continually, almost as if they were about 
to return ; but as time goes on, and the meaning 
of the long separation sinks upon our hearts, we 
speak of them less and less, until, at last, unless 
for some special reason, we mention them no more. 
So it was between Dinah and Jane Anne. At 
first, even for a month or two, they would speak 
of Lewis without restraint ; Jane Anne would 
read with tears his last letter to her ; they even 
talked about his life in prison, his hours, his labour, 
his release ; then they spoke about him less fre- 
quently ; then there were months of a sad silence 
when Dinah would come in and sit, and they 


OYER THE HILLS 


271 


would talk all round the subject, but would never 
mention his name. 

Miss Jerningham went about as usual. ‘ She is 
losing her looks,’ the townspeople remarked, and 
she had indeed lost the look of youth. She enter- 
tained her parents’ company ; she executed all her 
small home and social duties with just the same 
calm exactness as before. It was, of course, re- 
ported that she had rejected numberless suitors 
(such a report is always prevalent about a girl who 
will be an heiress), but in her case the assertion 
was quite untrue. There was an unapproachable, 
stony indifference in her manner that awed the 
fortune-hunters and made the men who did really 
care for her despair. Jerningham, who perhaps 
felt some chagrin at this state of matters, would 
not even allow to himself what might probably be 
the cause of it. When at last, nearly a year after 
Lewis had gone to prison, an eligible suitor in the 
person of young Yan der Hulst, the heir of the 
other half of the riches of his firm, did present 
himself, Dinah listened impassively to all that her 
father had to say in the young man’s favour, and 
merely remarked at the end of it, as if the ques- 
tion did not require an instant’s consideration — 

‘ It is perfectly impossible, papa. I should 
never dream of marrying Mr. Yan der ILulst.’ 

‘ Why not ? ’ Jerningham broke out irritably. 

4 1 should like to know, why not ; you ’ll say you 


272 


OYER THE HILLS 


don’t love him, or some nonsense of that sort, I 
suppose ? ’ 

‘ I do not ; but that is not my only reason. ’ 

‘ What on earth is it then ? ’ he demanded. 

‘ I do not choose to tell you, papa. ’ 

6 Why not, pray ? ’ 

‘ Because you would not understand, ’ said 
Dinah. 

£ I understand that you are a perfect fool ! ’ he 
said, turning sharply away, and there was an end 
of the matter. 

So with her unbecoming gravity, she went about 
as usual, and, heiress though she was, was not 
persecuted by any more suitors. 

Jane Anne heard about the thing only by acci- 
dent from her aunt, who had been much annoyed. 

‘I’m sure I don’t know why Dinah wouldn’t 
have him, he ’s got money and everything, and 
I ’m sure he ’s just the sort of man that any girl 
ought to be able to fancy herself in love with — if 
that’s all she wants,’ complained Mrs. Jerning- 
bam, whose ideas on this subject were pliant. 

Jane Anne ventured very timidly to allude to 
this to Dinah one day some time afterwards. She 
looked at the girl curiously as she spoke ; for to 
her mind a proposal of marriage from any one was 
a solemn and awful event in life ; it had been so 
in her own career, and she marvelled as she saw 
that Dinah was not troubled by the very slightest 


OYER THE HILLS 


273 


emotion upon the subject. She spoke of Mr. Van 
der Ilulst as she might have spoken of a pattern 
of some dress material that she had rejected. 

‘ Don’t you think you will ever marry, dear ? ’ 
Jane Anne asked wistfully. Dinah made no re- 
ply. They were sitting together by the fire in the 
twilight, and the child was playing on the rug. 
As Jane Anne spoke, Dinah stooped and lifted 
Tomasina on to her lap, and hid her face in the 
child’s hair, and Jane Anne too became silent and 
confused. ‘ You are cold, Dinah, you are shiver- 
ing,’ she said at length, when Dinah had risen to 
go, and was standing with her hand in hers. 

‘ No, no, it is nothing, I am not cold,’ said 
Dinah, turning to look down at her with her sad 
eyes. 

Jane Anne flushed, then grew pale, then looked 
up pleadingly at the girl, as if she expected her to 
be angry for speaking. 4 1 have had a letter from 
Lewis,’ she murmured. As Dinah did not speak, 
she added, 4 He has got — his sentence came to an 
end last week — I had thought, had almost hoped 
that he would have come back to me — to us, Dinah 
— but I see from this letter that that can never 
be. He says dreadful things. He speaks of dis- 
grace. He tells me that he has enlisted as a sol- 
dier — as a soldier — and, oh ! Dinah ! Dinah ! he 

will never come back, I know ’ and laying her 

head on Dinah’s arm, she clung to her weeping. 


274 


OYBR THE HILLS 


‘ Did he send no message to me, Janie ? 5 asked 
the girl. Jane Anne fumbled in her pocket for 
the letter, and pointed to a line written at the end 
of it, i Tell Dinah to forget me now . 5 4 Is that 

all ? ’ said Dinah. Jane Anne looked up, aston- 
ished by her proud smile. 

Dinah went home and sat down to read the 
newspapers that contained accounts of the war ; 
and the next day, and the next, and through all 
the months that followed, she read, with an un- 
moved face, all the worst of it. Rumours of the 
sufferings of the men, of cold and sickness, bad 
food, and everything else, were circulated freely. 
Dinah heard them all, and she remembered every- 
thing, but she never spoke to Jane Anne about 
him any more. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


It was cold that night at Ubster as Dinah walked 
home, but colder far under the grey sky at Inker- 
mann, where the British troops were freezing, ill- 
clad, and hungry. 

Two men had been crouching side by side in 
one of the trenches for an hour, without exchang- 
ing a word. The firing at last was directed to the 
left of them, only a stray shot came spitting now 
and then against the barrier behind which they 
lay. At last the younger of the two raised him- 
self to look about him. He was so thin, that his 
bones seemed huge, and his whole body a mere 
skeleton ; his cheeks were sunken, and only the 
lines of his throat, and the still graceful carriage 
of his head, remained of Lewis Campbell as he 
used to be. 

The other man was watching him closely ; but 
as Lewis turned towards him, he pulled his cap 
over his eyes, and let his head sink back on his 
arms. 

Lewis had a newspaper (an old one by several 
weeks) in his pocket : as the firing lessened, he 


276 


OYER THE HILLS 


unfolded it and began to read. Suddenly he 
stopped short and burst out laughing. 

4 You ’re merry,’ said his companion in a low 
voice, without lifting his head. 4 What ’s the 
joke ? ’ 

4 Nothing much,’ said Lewis. 4 It ’s a Scotch 
paper, ’ he remarked ; and after a minute or two 
he handed it to the other, who glanced his eyes 
quickly over the column, and then laid his finger 
on one paragraph. It was the announcement of 
the marriage of the Marquis of Glarn to Miss 
Annie Fraser, etc. etc. 

He leant over and looked up at Lewis. 4 This 
is what amused you, I fancy, ’ he said. 4 1 read it 
some time ago.’ He lifted his cap off his head as 
he spoke. The fine drizzling rain that was falling 
quickly powdered his hair with dew ; his ragged 
shirt and coat were already soaked. He raised his 
pale face to Lewis. 4 Hon ’t you know me, Camp- 
bell ? ’ he inquired. 4 You laughed like that the 
last time we met at Ubster. ’ 

Lewis stared incredulous. 4 Good Lord ! ’ he 
exclaimed, 4 am I mad at last ? ’ 

Lord Glarn laid a hand upon his. 4 Feel it,’ he 
said, 4 flesh and bones — mostly bones — you see. 
Come, I ’ll tell you all about it ; only draw closer, 
in case we should be overheard.’ 

He turned again on his side, leaning on one 
elbow, holding his cap in the other hand, indiffer- 


OYER THE HILLS 


277 


ent, it seemed, to the light yet drenching rain that 
was falling about them, and which made Lewis 
shudder. He did not appear to have suffered 
much — nothing compared to most of the men 
around them. He was thin, of course, but he 
looked in good health, and there was an energy in 
his face that Lewis had not seen there before. 

‘ But, ’ the young man stammered, 4 1 thought 
that you were dead. ’ 

‘ I was afraid, ’ said Lord Glarn simply, 4 when 
I came face to face with it at last. I had always 
kept it as a last resource, as a man keeps a. nar- 
cotic beside him in case pain should become un- 
bearable. But when I came to the edge at last, 
I hesitated ; it might only make a bad matter 
worse, who knows ? I thought I ’d try to see 
how it felt to escape from all the circumstances of 
my life before I ended it. You see me here ; 
I’m as dead to all my past as if the earth were 
over me.’ 

4 But at any moment you may be recognised.’ 

4 Ho, no,’ Lord Glarn laughed, 4 nothing could 
be more unlikely. I went and enlisted, and have 
gone through the whole thing without any fear of 
that. Who knows me here, or thinks of me ? 
You have looked me in the face yourself half-a- 
dozen times and never thought of it. ’ 

4 It confused me now, I remember,’ said Lewis. 

4 You said something in Gaelic to one of the others 


278 


OVER THE HILLS 


beside me the other day, and I turned to look at 
you, and wondered who you were. I asked, but 
they said your name was Grant. ’ 

‘ So it is, you know that. I gave ’em the whole 
string of my Christian names too when I enlisted ! 
I should scarcely have known you but for your 
eyes,’ said the Marquis. 

Lewis flushed for a moment as he answered, 
‘ Yes ; I am changed.’ 

‘ Come, tell me now, Campbell , 5 said Lord 
Glarn. ‘ Here we are, both of us, as far away 
from the past as if we were in hell or heaven — tell 
me the truth about that affair.’ 

But Lewis shook his head. His thin hands were 
clenched, and he breathed hard. He raised his 
face quickly. ‘ Why did you not marry Annie 
Fraser, my lord ? ’ he asked, looking in Lord 
Glarn’s face in his old frank boyish fashion. 

6 Do you not know ? ’ 

‘ I ? why should I know your reasons ? ’ 

‘ Do you remember a letter that you wrote to 
her the day before you left Scotland ? ’ 

‘ Yes ; I remember.’ 

‘ I read it. I need not tell you how — it ’s a 
long story — but I scarcely needed to know what 

that told me. I had seen other things ’ he 

paused. 

‘ Poor little Annie ! ’ said Lewis under his 
breath. 


OYER THE HILLS 


279 


Lord Glarn looked at him. ‘ I ’m afraid I am 
not generous like you, Campbell. Well, so she ’s 
Marchioness of Glarn after all. ’ 

1 For a time,’ said Lewis. 

Lord Glarn smiled. ‘Oh! it’s all right; I 
won’t return from the dead. Some day I ’ll man- 
age it. See there ! ’ He picked up a spent shot 
that had rung against the bank behind him. 
4 They all pass me by. There ’s that young fellow 
who was killed by my elbow yesterday crying for 
his sweetheart at home ; and I ’ve come out to 
seek for it, and can’t get it at any price.’ 

‘ Perhaps,’ said Lewis, £ you ’ll be glad enough 
some day. This sort of thing amuses you because 
it ’s new. When you ’ve wanted shoes, and food, 
and sleep as long as some of us, you ’ll be glad 
enough to return to what you left. ’ 

‘ Perhaps, perhaps,’ said the Marquis softly, 
looking up at the grey hopeless sky. 

They had some sharp fighting the next morn- 
ing, and Lewis was sitting by the camp-fire along 
with half-a-dozen other men, when there was a 
pause for a little in the firing, trying to dry his 
soaked clothing. Stiff, worn out, some of them 
wounded, with hungry eyes and frost-bitten hands, 
they crouched over the ashes of the fire as if it 
were something sacred. 

Some one tapped Lewis on the shoulder and 
told him he was wanted in the hospital tent. 


280 


OYEE THE HILLS 


Without even asking why, he rose wearily, and 
stumbled after his guide. 

The tent was dark, damp, and crowded. The 
man who guided Lewis paused about the middle, 
pointing to the wounded man lying between two 
who were already dead. ‘ There, that ’s him,’ he 
said, and went away. Lewis knelt down and put 
his arm under the Marquis’s head. The pale face 
brightened suddenly with the rare, sweet smile 
that had charmed him since his boyhood. 

‘ All over, ’ he murmured. He could scarcely 
speak, and looked wofully at the blood that had 
run down over Campbell’s sleeve. 

Lewis sat with him for a long time till the sur- 
geon came round, glanced at the wounded man, 
and then hurried on without a word. At last 
Lord Glarn tried to raise himself, and his fingers 
closed sharply over the young man’s hand. 

‘ Now, ’ he gasped. 

Lewis bent over him. ‘ Oh ! sir, stay ! ’ he 
called in his ear, as if his own impatience must be 
answered. ‘ It ’s not the end yet — stay ! stay ! ’ 

Glarn opened his eyes again and looked at him 
— at his eager face — then, like one that has almost 
been overpersuaded, yet may not change his mind, 
he smiled, and faintly shook his head. 

That night when the dead had been laid in their 
shallow grave, Lewis stood for a long time in the 


OYER THE HILLS 


281 


darkness beside it, until a passing sentry told him 
to move on. ‘ They ’ll sleep well to-night,’ said 
the man, throwing the flash of his lantern for a 
minute on the shapeless mound. 

c Yes, at last,’ said Lewis as he turned away. 
He remembered the night when the Marquis had 
quoted to him, with a laugh, a saying of some one 
that he knew, and Lewis repeated it again to him- 
self as he left the common grave, ‘ To wake on the 
beach at Glam? 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


The stir that had attended the close of the war 
was almost forgotten : for the guns of peace had 
been fired, and the heroes decorated, and the ob- 
scurer men of the British forces thanked collec- 
tively. Some had gone to new quarters to boast 
of their sufferings, and some home to tell their 
friends, the poor remainder to the hospitals, to die 
or recover, as the case might be. The streets 
were gay with sunshine, and even the front of the 
War Hospital was brightened up with some green 
grass and autumn flowers. 

It was the hour when visitors were admitted, 
but few came. One carriage only drove up to the 
big doors, and from it there emerged a man, ac- 
companied by a young, slender woman, who wore 
a bonnet lined with blue. 

4 1 shall come in with you, sister ; I feel so for 
those poor men. Some of them like to see me, 
I know.’ 

4 You are very kind ; it is a Christian act,’ said 
the sister, lifting her breviary and a large basket of 
flowers from the seat of the carriage, and they 


OYER THE HILLS 


283 


entered the corridor together. 4 I shall take some 
of these , 9 said the young woman ; she buried her 
hands in the basket, and took up a bunch of flow- 
ers. At the door of the ward a nurse received 
them, who spoke to the nun and bowed to the 
lady, who proceeded to walk slowly down the long 
room, pausing every now and then to smile and 
speak a few words to the men as she handed them 
some flowers. She moved with much elegance, 
her rich dress gave out a pleasant crumpling of 
silks, and some of the sick men looked gratefully 
at her attractive face, framed in the pale blue lin- 
ing of her bonnet. 

4 That is the Marchioness of Glarn ; she comes 
here sometimes along with the Sisters of Charity,’ 
said a lame man at the end of the room to his com- 
panion, who was lying flat on his back, and could 
not as yet see the approaching figure. 

4 What ! Who did you say ? ’ The man in bed 
turned his eyes on the speaker with sudden ani- 
mation. 

4 The Marchioness of Glarn ; she ’s a Catholic, 
and very pious ; gives us flowers too. ’ 

He saluted as the lady came up to them, and 
hobbled a few steps forward to take the flowers 
that she held out to him. Meantime the man in 
the next bed moved slightly (he was very ill), and 
turned, so that his eyes, deep set, and burning 
with fever, were for a moment fixed upon her 


284 


OVER THE HILLS 


face. Even the little effort had cost him too much 
though, for a moan of pain escaped him that at- 
tracted Annie’s attention. ‘ This poor fellow is 
very ill ? ’ she said, and with a nod and smile to 
the other, passed on to where the sick man lay. 
She had scarcely looked at him before she came 
close up to the bed, saying in her caressing voice, 
c These are very sweet. May I lay them on your 
pillow ? ’ But even as she spoke, her face grew 
pale, and she swayed for a moment as if she would 
fall — she saw that it was Lewis Campbell who lay 
there. In another instant, however, she had re- 
covered her self-possession and stood upright once 
more. 

Lewis made an effort to speak, but his dry mouth 
refused to utter the words, so for a minute they 
were both silent. Annie’s rich cloak was sweep- 
ing the edge of the bed as she stood looking down 
at him, . . . There, on the coarse pillow, was 
the head that had lain upon her breast ; wasted 
and hollow the face that her lips had kissed ; slow 
tears of mortal weakness welled one by one from 
the brave eyes that had so often looked into her 
own. . . . She stood still and silent for the space 
of three breathing times ; her brilliant eyes con- 
tracted ; her little face under the blue bonnet 
turned as white as milk ; then, with a supreme 
effort of self-control, she detached two or three 
blossoms from the bunch of flowers in her hand, 


OVER THE HILLS 


285 


laid them delicately on the pillow, and walked 
away. 

She went quickly up the ward, pressing her 
handkerchief to her lips. 

4 I am rather sick,’ she said to the sister, who 
was standing with the nurse at the door. 4 1 cam 
not stand the sight of so much suffering. Oh ! 
how can things so horrible exist ? The smell in 
this place makes me faint. Come away.’ 

4 Poor lady ! she is so tender-hearted,’ mur- 
mured the sister to the nurse as they followed her. 
At the door of the hospital Annie turned — 

4 Was that man — the one in the last bed — very 
ill ? ’ she asked. 

4 Yes, he is very bad, ’ the nurse replied. 

4 Will he die ? ’ 

4 1 cannot say, my lady ; he has still a chance. ’ 

4 Oh ! it was so horrible ! Come, come,’ said 
Annie to the sister, throwing herself back in the 
carriage with a sigh. 

As they drew near the convent where the nun 
had to get out, she drew her purse from her pocket. 

4 1 wish to give you some money, sister, if you 
will ask the Reverend Mother to have some masses 
said in your chapel for a soul in Purgatory.’ 

4 Did it die repentant ? ’ inquired the sister, as 
Annie counted the gold into her hand. 

Annie looked up quickly. 4 I think so ; but in 
error, ’ 


256 


OYER THE HILLS 


When the nun had alighted, and the carriage 
drove on again, she shut her purse with a snap. 

4 If there is anything in it, ’ she said to herself. 
4 There may be ; there may be. ’ She sat staring 
out of the window at the crowded streets through 
which she drove. Her eyes were wide and fixed, 
and she saw nothing that she passed by. Again 
she seemed to feel the cold wash of salt water on 
her feet in the darkness of a cave, to be choked 
by the anguish of terror that assailed her, to hear 
Lewis speak to her, telling her not to be afraid : 
the noise of the streets was like the roar of the 
distant sea. Then the carriage turned in to the 
great quiet square where she lived, and drew up 
at the door. Annie stood on the steps absently, 
looking before her, without making a step to enter 
the house, till she saw the astonished faces of the 
servants, then she recollected herself, went quickly 
through the hall, and shut herself into her own 
room. She tore off her cloak and gloves and 
threw herself into a chair, tossing her purse upon 
the floor. 4 They don’t say masses for a soul in 
hell,’ she said, covering her face with her hands. 
***** 

In the hospital, after Annie had left, Lewis lay 
still, with his eyes fixed upon the roof. A nurse 
came up and spoke to him, but he made no reply. 
It was the hour of a meal, and all the men who 
were able sat up and drank from the little tin 


OYER THE HILLS 


287 


cans, and ate and joked, or complained to one 
another. 

But Lewis was aware no longer of the sounds 
about him, remembered nothing of the bare room 
in which he lay ; a wave of memory had blotted 
out the present from his mind — a rush of pity, of 
regret. Again he saw the white shore of the loch 
and heard the stockdoves grieving in the deep 
woods of Glarn. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 



There had been a long frost in Ubster, a long, 
hard winter, and as yet there was no appearance 
of the reluctant spring. 

It seemed to Dinah as if the winter would never 
end. She was out one day, which had been rather 
brighter than usual, and noticed as she came 
homewards, late in the afternoon, how the frost 
had once more tightened over the ground, while 
in the dense sky there was no promise of relief. 
The words of the psalm she had heard in church 
the day before came into her mind as she walked 
on and heard the hard ground ringing to her feet, 
and looked across the deathlike landscape to the 
grey sea beyond, 4 Being bound in affliction and 
iron? She murmured them to herself as she went 
along. 

Before going home she stopped at the little 
house at the corner to see Jane Anne. They 
talked for a few minutes, but Dinah thought her 
cousin looking strangely agitated. She wondered 
if she had heard again from Lewis, but she could 
not bring herself to ask, and Jane Anne, for once, 
was reticent, if she had any news. Her cheeks 



OVEE THE HILLS 


2S9 


were flushed and her eyes unusually bright. She 
answered Dinah’s remarks quite at random, only 
when the girl was going away she held her as if 
she could not let her go. 

‘ You can’t come back again this evening, dear ? ’ 
she asked wistfully. 

‘ Ho, Janie, it ’s impossible ; we have a dinner- 
party to-night, you know. I ’m afraid I can’t. 
Why ? Do you want me for anything ? ’ said 
Dinah, surprised by the eagerness of her tone. 

‘ Ho, no, it ’s not that ; it ’s nothing,’ said her 
cousin hurriedly, and the girl went away, wonder- 
ing a little what she had meant. 

Passing downstairs, Dinah encountered Phemie. 
She stood in conversation with a young woman in 
the lobby, who was weeping and pouring out a 
torrent of Gaelic ejaculations. 

£ What is the matter with your friend, Phemie ? ’ 
Dinah inquired kindly. 

The young woman could speak no English, so 
Phemie explained to Dinah that she was her sister- 
in-law, who was on the eve of her departure to 
America to rejoin her husband. 

‘ And it ’s the thought of the ocean that ’s ter- 
rifying her ; the creature ! ’ said Phemie. ‘ She 
had no thought of going so soon, but the vessel is 
sailing earlier than we thought. ’ 

Dinah asked when the ship sailed, and was told 
that night. 


290 


OYER TIIE HILLS 


‘ But you will have friends on board, ’ she said, 
trying to console the girl. 

At this, Phemie, who was usually so grim, an- 
swered with emotion, ‘ There ’ s many going, Miss 
— a hundred and more — that ’ll never see home 
and friends again.’ 

She gazed at Miss Jerningham strangely as she 
spoke, adding, ‘ There ’s more than her that’ll 
weep to-morrow.’ 

Dinah turned to the young woman, ‘ Tell her to 
have courage, Phemie. She is happy to be going 
to her husband though she had to sail to the 
world’s end.’ 

‘Eh, yon’s the brave leddy,’ sighed Phemie, 
watching her as she walked away. 

Dinah went home and dressed in preparation for 
the dinner-party. 

It was a wild evening, very dark, and the wind 
had risen, bringing with it driving showers of sleet 
and snow. It was so cold, that even in the warm 
old house Mrs. Jerningham and Dinah sat close 
by the fire. 

It grew close on the hour when the guests would 
arrive, and Mrs. Jerningham was discussing some 
final details of the dinner-party with her daughter. 
Dinah was in the act of writing down a list of names ; 
suddenly she paused, lifting her head to listen. 

‘ What is it \ It ’s too early for any one to come 
yet,’ said her mother. 


OYER THE HILLS 


291 


Dinah went on writing, but in a minute she 
raised her head again. 

4 Hush, mother, please ! What ’s that ? ’ she 
said. 

Mrs. Jerningham listened. 

4 A beggar singing in the street, Dinah ; it’s 
nothing. ’ 

Dinah’s face had grown pale, so pale that her 
eyes seemed to glow and darken. She got up and 
went to the window. 

The wind had ceased for a moment, and in 
the pause she heard a man singing outside. 
The voice was soft and true in the lower, but 
broken on the upper notes. He played on a 
little pipe such as any strolling vagabond uses, 
and sang — 

4 Rose of the World ! Star of the Sea ! 

Mother of sinners , pray for me ! ’ 

Dinah, drawing aside the curtains to look out, 
could vaguely distinguish his figure in the light 
cast by the lamps at the door. His face she could 
not see. 

4 Don’t have him standing there when the car- 
riages come ! ’ called her mother. 4 Throw him 
a penny, Dinah. No, stay ; here ’s a half-penny, 
that will do. ’ 

Dinah still looked out eagerly into the darkness, 
but the man had gone. She, on her part, was for 
the moment, as she stood at the window, clearly 


292 


OYER THE HILLS 


visible to any one from without. She did not an- 
swer her mother, but stepped to the door. 

‘ William,’ she called to the servant, ‘ go down 
at once and tell the man who was singing in the 
front courtyard that I wish to speak to him. ’ 

She followed the man downstairs as she spoke, 
and was standing by the door when he returned to 
say that there was no one there — the beggar had 
gone. Miss Jerningham herself stepped outside 
for a moment. Standing bareheaded in the court, 
holding up her skirts from the wet stones, she 
looked round and round again, but there was no 
sign of the singer. 

‘ Go along the street a little way and tell me if he 
is there, ’ she commanded the astonished servant. 

When he came back again, saying that there 
was no one to be seen, she stood for a little 
longer, holding her hand across her eyes, gazing 
into the darkness, regardless of the icy wind and 
the drifting snow that touched her bare neck. 

She came back shivering to the drawing-room 
where Mrs. Jerningham was waiting. The first 
carriage arrived just as she entered the room, and 
she had to turn her attention to her guests. 

It was an unusually formal dinner-party, given 
in honour of the marriage of Mr. Jerningham’s 
partner, and every one of any importance in 
Ubster had been invited. 

Jerningham was in remarkably good humour, 


OYER THE HILLS 


293 


and more than ordinarily genial. The guests re- 
marked that at first Miss Jerningham was very 
pale ; but after they had gone down to dinner, 
when her cheeks flushed, she looked in her massive 
style animated and handsome. 

She stood a little apart after the ladies had re- 
turned to the drawing-room ; every now and then 
she raised her head as if half expecting to hear 
something outside. In a few minutes the servant 
who had brought in the coffee came up to her and 
told her in a low voice that an old woman was 
waiting downstairs, who refused to go away until 
she had seen Miss Jerningham. 

‘ Who is she, William ? ’ Dinah asked. 

£ I think she is Mrs. Campbell’s servant, ’ he an- 
swered doubtfully, for Phemie had never before 
been seen at the house. 

Dinah told him to put the woman into the- 
library. She waited for a few minutes longer in 
the drawing-room, then she seized an opportunity 
when every one was talking to slip away unob- 
served. As she went downstairs, through the 
great hall that smelt of dinner, she could hear 
bursts of laughter and men’s voices from the door 
of the dining-room. 

In the library Phemie was waiting, grim, and 
redder in the face than usual, pinned into a shawl. 
She motioned to Dinah to close the door, and be- 
gan at once in a hoarse whisper — 


294 


OVER THE HILLS 


4 1 could not keep it to myself, dearie ’ (it was 
thus in her agitation that she dared to address 
Miss Jerningham). 4 He charged me that I was 
never to say a word to you. The sight of you at 
the window was all he was wantin’, just to heal 
his eyes, he said, before he went away for ever. 
He charged me not to tell ! May I be forgiven, 
but I could not do it ! I thought maybe you 
would send a word to him by me ’ 

Dinah seized the old woman’s arm in her strong 
hand and looked down into her face. 

4 It was he, then ! I knew ! I knew ! Tell 
me, woman ; be quick ! be quick ! where is he 
now ? ’ 

4 He ’ll soon be gone, dearie ! ’ Phemie broke 
off suddenly into a different strain, 4 Eh ! my bon- 
nie lad that used to be ! To see him now ! to see 
him now ! ’ 

Dinah tightened her grip on the rough, fat arm. 

4 Go on, ’ she said, with a curious likeness to her 
father in the decisive tones of her voice that seemed 
to nail the old woman’s words to the point. 

4 Tell me, quick, when did he come ? Where is 
he now ? ’ 

4 He came to see the mistress this morning. ’ 

4 Yes, yes ; and where is he now ? ’ 

Phemie uttered a low Gaelic exclamation. 

4 He ’s on the ship by this time, dearie ; it ’s 
sailing to-night with the tide ; in two hours he ’ll 


OYER TELE HILLS 


295 


be gone, and we ’ll never see him more. But send 
me a word, and I ’ll take it to him yet,’ she 
pleaded. 

Dinah clenched her hand and straightened her- 
self. 

‘ With the emigrant ship that ’s in the harbour 
there ? ’ she demanded, her dry eyes fixed piti- 
lessly on the old woman’s tears. 

‘ Yes, yes ! May a curse be on them that ’s 
sending him away like an outcast, ’ she began. 

Dinah did not heed her curses. She stood lean- 
ing one hand on the table, looking on the ground, 
her brows knitted deeply, her mouth set. 

4 Phemie, listen to me,’ she said at length. 
‘ Stop crying ; stop that nonsense. Do you hear ? ’ 

Phemie dried her eyes and was silent. She was 
half afraid of Dinah whom she had come to seek, 
for her words had roused a force that she felt 
would carry her away. Was she going to send a 
message ? Would she go herself to the ship and 
bid him good-bye, she wondered, with a sudden 
exaltation in the girl’s courage. 

But Dinah gave no message. 

( Your sister-in-law is going by that boat ? ’ she 
asked. 

‘ Yes.’ 

£ She has taken her passage ? ’ 

‘ Oh yes ; yesterday. ’ 

4 Well, are you listening ? Go back ; go this 


296 


OVER THE HILLS 


moment ; find out if she has gone down to the 
ship yet ; if she has not, get that ticket from her ; 
bring it here to me. Don’t lose an instant, run ; 
if she has gone, go down to the ship and bring her 
back ; quick.’ 

‘ What for, dearie ? ’ 

‘ Oh, you fool ! ’ said Dinah. 

She leant forwards and took Phemie by the 
shoulders. 

‘ Cannot you understand ? I ’ll pay her passage 
by the other boat. 1 am going myself in her place. 
Go ! go ! ’ 

With a stifled exclamation and a single glance 
at Dinah’s face, Phemie turned and left the room. 


CHAPTER XXXIX 


Mrs. Jerningham had just remarked her daugh- 
ter’s absence when Dinah returned to the draw- 
ing-room. She walked in with heightened colour, 
her head held high. She stood by the fireplace 
talking to the guests ; every now and then, in 
pauses of her conversation, she glanced at the 
clock upon the mantelpiece. 

When the door opened, she looked round quickly, 
but it was only the men who came up from the 
dining room. Jerningham followed last of all, his 
dark face glowing with wine and satisfaction. 

‘ What a wild night ! ’ said some one by Dinah’s 
side ; ‘ we ’re well off indoors to-night ! ’ 

‘ We are,’ Dinah assented, with another glance 
at the clock, where the fat gilt cupids (that she 
had known ever since she was a child, and could 
not reach as high as the mantel- shelf) were presid- 
ing over the flight of moments that were now, to 
her, so dark and so intense. 

‘ Emigrant vessel sails to-night,’ said Mr. Jer- 
ningham. ‘ A hundred and more going off — trash 
from the West. Highlanders. There ’s no stam- 


298 


OYEE THE HILLS 


ina in those people ; they ’re a good riddance to 
the country. ’ 

The clock struck half-past ten. The guests be- 
gan to take their leave. Miss Jerningham stood 
immovable till she had shaken hands with the last 
of them — they seemed multiplied by ten she 
thought — as if there was no end of them. 

‘There, that’s over for the winter anyway,’ 
said Mrs. Jerningham when the last man had 
bowed himself away. ‘ It costs a good deal, but 
we won’t need to do it again.’ 

Jerningham came up from seeing his guests 
depart. 

Dinah observed the man-servant follow him up- 
stairs. She went to the door. ‘ Has any one 
come to see me ? ’ she asked. 

‘ Mrs. Campbell,’ the servant replied, speaking 
in a low voice, lest Jerningham should overhear ; 
for the household could not but be aware of the 
relations between him and Jane Anne, as she had 
never before entered the house since her marriage. 

‘ Hush ! ’ said Dinah ; she added calmly, ‘ Put 
her into my room.’ She waited for a minute until 
she heard him close the door, then she returned 
to the drawing-room. 

Jerningham said he had still some letters to 
write, and went off to the library. Mrs. Jerning- 
ham began to yawn. Dinah went up and bid her 
good-night, then she went to her own room. 


OYER THE HILLS 


299 


The light was turned low, and Jane Anne was 
standing rolled up in a great shawl, her face pale, 
her hands trembling with excitement, as she held 
out a paper to Dinah. 4 Here it is,’ she gasped. 
4 Phemie told me. She told me everything. I 
said that I would come myself. Oh ! Dinah, 
what are you going to do ? ’ 

4 I am going away ; help me, Janie,’ said Dinah, 
who had scarcely taken the paper from her cousin’s 
hand, before she had rolled it up and put it into 
her purse. Jane Anne stood spellbound ; she 
hardly realised what the girl’s swift movements 
meant. Dinah had begun to unfasten her dress, 
when she stopped and looked at her watch. 4 1 ’ve 
no time,’ she said, and began instead to roll up 
some clothing into a bundle. 4 There ! tie it up, 
Janie,’ she said. She stripped the bracelets from 
her arms, and slipped the rings off her fingers, not 
hurrying, but moving with extraordinary deftness 
and precision. Jane Anne caught the elation in 
the girl’s face. She wrapped up the bundle with 
trembling hands. Dinah came up to her holding 
a cloak. 4 Put on this and give me that, ’ she 
said, and Jane Anne took off the shawl that she 
was wearing — of the dark green Campbell tartan 
— and watched amazed as Dinah wrapped herself 
in it, covering her head with it as the peasant 
women do. 

4 Are you going— like that — Dinah ? ’ stammered 


300 


OYER THE HILLS 


Jane Anne. Her words seemed to choke her, but 
her eyes were bright, and she put on the cloak as 
quickly as Dinah could have done. Dinah caught 
up the bundle and then she threw her arms about 
her cousin’s neck ; they clung together for a 
moment, just as they had done years ago, 
when Jane Anne, not Dinah, was about to 
leave that house ; then the girl opened the 
door, and they stepped out into the passage. 
Seeing that there was no one on the staircase, 
and that the lighted hall was empty, Dinah 
locked the door of the bedroom behind her and 
took the key. 

‘ They will think I have gone to bed, ’ she whis- 
pered. ‘ Come, Janie, courage ; there is no one 
there. ’ 

But, for once in her life, there was no need to 
exhort Jane Anne to have courage. Her whole 
soul rose in a sudden triumph as she followed the 
girl silently downstairs. She paused for an in- 
stant, trembling with excitement by the library 
door. Just there she had stood years before, but 
trembling then with terror at the idea of telling 
her uncle about her marriage ; and now Jane 
Anne smiled, in the only revengeful moment of 
her whole meek life, as she passed on and followed 
Dinah out into the darkness. 

The street lamps were all extinguished, only the 
light from the windows cast a red glow upon the 


OYER THE HILLS 


301 


stones as the two women crossed the courtyard 
and were swallowed up by the night, 

A few steps farther ; then Dinah put her arms 
about her cousin again. 4 Good-bye now,’ she 
said. ‘ Go home, Janie ; don’t be frightened, you 
have not far to go. God bless you and Phemie 
for this,’ and in another moment she had turned 
towards the harbour and was gone. Jane Anne 
with a sob looked after her, and turned to take 
her own way home. 

It was very dark now, with some wind and 
driving showers of snow. Dinah bent her head 
as she hurried forwards. The water soaked 
through her slippers, the wind blew aside the 
shawl that covered her, and the cold sleet was 
blown for a minute on her bare neck, but she 
wrapped the shawl more closely round her and 
struggled on. She passed no one as she went 
along the quay. 

The lights of the harbour flared dimly in the 
murky atmosphere. There was a dense crowd 
upon the pier ; a crowd of sobbing women, and 
men pushing and struggling, everywhere the 
sound of voices broken with weeping. A sorry 
crowd it was, with lean, hunger-sunken faces and 
stooping figures, and sodden, rain-soaked clothing. 
Most of the emigrants had gone on board early in 
the day, but there remained many who had still 
to get on to the ship, and had to be disentangled 


302 


OYER TIIE IIILLS 


at the last moment from the squad of friends and 
relatives who had come to see them off. 

Dinah pushed her way amongst the people ; her 
tall stature and her gentle manner made them 
move aside to let her pass ; and at last she reached 
the gangway, where an official with a lantern was 
examining the passes and taking the passengers on 
board. 

4 Come along, come along, now, ’ he called in a 
raucous voice. 4 Come along with you, or we ’ll 
never be off to-night,’ the crowd pressed more 
closely around her. Dinah drew her shawl over 
her face as she stepped upon the gangway, and 
held him out the paper without a word. 

4 What name ? ’ he bawled. 

4 Campbell.’ 

4 Pass on — be quick,’ lowering the lantern tow- 
ards the next comer, and she stepped down on to 
the deck. 

For a long while after the gangway had been 
raised she could distinguish nothing amidst the 
crowd. They huddled round her like frightened 
sheep, women sobbing, and uncared-for, wearied 
little children wailing at their sides, men sitting 
hiding their faces with their hands. At another 
time all Dinah’s sympathies would have been 
aroused. But she gave no heed to them now. 
She counted the slow minutes ; would the signal 
never be given for the vessel to leave ? What if 


OVER THE HILLS 


303 


they had already discovered her absence — if some- 
how or other they had found out where she had 
gone ! She stood holding by the railing, unno- 
ticed amongst the crowd. At last, with a final 
shouting and a great lurch, the ship began to 
move. 

The rain was clearing gradually ; the blind night 
wind buffeted her face, and spatterings of spray 
fell upon her shoulders, as the vessel rocked with 
the rising tide. 

Then the moon came out faintly ; and when the 
sails at last had filled, and the freshening breeze 
was carrying them out to sea, the crowd about 
her began gradually to disperse. Some had gone 
below, and some had sunk down on deck, lying on 
their bundles, slackened into strange attitudes of 
weariness and depression. 

Still Dinah kept looking, and then she moved 
suddenly forwards. At last she saw Lewis, sit- 
ting motionless by the railing to the left of her. 
She stood at first with her eyes fixed upon him, 
scarcely able to believe that it was he. Had time 
then, however long in passing it had been to her, 
made such cruel havoc of him ! It seared her 
very heart as she looked. She saw his sunken 
eyes, his hair touched with grey, his thin hands. 
In the wavering light, where he sat under the 
lamp, she could have thought it was an old man. 
He kept his head turned towards the town, watch- 


304 


OYER THE HILLS 


in g till the light on the pier-head died away in the 
distance like a spark. Then, with a deep groan 
and a shiver, he raised his worn body, and leaning 
both hands on the railing, he cast a long look 
round about him. 

The moon was sinking now, and in the heavens 
swept clear of cloud, there would soon arise the 
first grey trembling of the dawn. 

The Scottish shore was left behind them as, with 
a steady freshening wind, the ship plunged out to 
sea. 

The effort had been too much for Lewis ; as he 
looked, he let go his hold, and sank back again 
upon the seat, inert and blinded with weakness. 

Dinah moved a step forwards. He did not see. 
She sat down by his side, but he did not look up. 
At last she laid her hand upon his arm. 

‘ Are you sad , Lewis , leaving all that you love 
behind you f ’ she said, dropping the shawl from 
her head, and she looked up into his face with 
eyes that were as grey and as full of hope as the 
grey sea, over the brightening waves of which the 
morning was about to break. 















